Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  Heron had been sighted some time ago and word had gone round the town. Consequently, the crew’s families had all gathered on the jetty to greet their sons. As the crew piled ashore, scrambling over the bulwarks and leaping onto dry land, the jetty became the scene of a dozen excited encounters, with everyone talking at once as mothers, fathers and siblings all plied their young men with questions, seldom waiting for the first to be answered before asking another.

  Most common was the request for reassurance. ‘Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?’

  Ulf and Wulf’s mother went pale with anguish as her sons tactlessly described Ulf’s brush with death.

  ‘I thought we’d lost him for sure, Mam,’ Wulf said enthusiastically. ‘One of the tribesmen stabbed him with this great knife and cut him from here to here.’ He demonstrated the extent of Ulf’s wound, exaggerating more than a little. ‘There was blood and gore everywhere!’

  His poor mother grabbed Ulf into her arms. ‘But you’re all right now?’ she said anxiously.

  Ulf shrugged off her concern with all the careless impatience of youth. ‘Of course I am, Mam. I mean, it was only a knife wound!’

  His mother turned away, shaking her head, wondering how many more of her hairs had gone grey in the last thirty seconds.

  Karina was one of the first to the jetty. She waited until her son stepped ashore – last to leave the ship, as usual. Then she stepped forward and embraced him, holding him far longer than he expected her to, hugging him to her, too full of emotion for words. When she finally released him and stepped back, her eyes were moist.

  ‘Loki’s beard,’ she exclaimed. ‘I swear you’ve grown five centimetres!’

  Hal laughed. Stig, who was close by and had a strong affection for Karina, asked her, laughing, ‘How about me, Hal’s Mam?’

  The diminutive woman looked up at him before replying.

  ‘You’ve grown at least ten, you gawky lout,’ she said fondly.

  Stig laughed, hugged her, then pushed through the crowd to where he could see his own mother, as always, standing back from the crowd. Karina watched him go, a little sadly.

  ‘I hope there’ll come a day when she forgets about her husband’s shame and enjoys the fame her son has gained,’ she said. Hal nodded agreement. Then Karina turned to regard Thorn, who was standing expectantly by. She took in his clean, albeit crumpled, linen shirt and roughly combed hair and beard.

  ‘So, how are you?’ she said coolly. She eyed his wooden hook. ‘Did you lose anything this time?’

  Thorn grinned and placed his wooden hand over his chest. ‘Only my heart, to a beautiful Araluan girl!’ he declaimed dramatically.

  Karina’s face darkened with fury. She stepped back from him, her hands on her hips, every inch of her bristling with anger.

  ‘What Araluan girl?’ she roared, her voice carrying over the general sounds of rejoicing and reunion on the wharf, and stilling all those around her. ‘Who is she? Where is she?’

  Hal stepped forward and laid a calming hand on her shoulder. He could feel the tension and the rage in her body.

  ‘Mam, I think he means you.’

  Karina looked at him. Looked at Thorn, who was smiling artlessly at her, and the rage went out of her like air out of a punctured bladder.

  ‘Eh? Oh . . . then why didn’t he say?’

  She stepped primly towards Thorn and held up her cheek to be kissed. When he tried to turn her face to kiss her on the lips, she resisted.

  ‘That can wait till the wedding,’ she said.

  Thorn looked around in surprise. ‘Oh? Is someone getting married?’ He recoiled in pain as Karina’s elbow jolted into his ribs.

  ‘Someone had better be,’ she said grimly.

  He nodded quickly. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ He sought Hal’s eyes and shrugged helplessly.

  Hal rolled his eyes at the shaggy old sea wolf. ‘You’re a silver-tongued charmer, aren’t you?’

  Thorn opened his mouth to reply, realised there was nothing he could say, and shut it again. He was saved by Svengal’s voice bellowing from the back of the crowd.

  ‘Make way for the Oberjarl! Make way for the Oberjarl!’

  Erak swept through the crowd as they parted before him like minnows fleeing a shark. Truth be told, he had no need for Svengal to announce him that way and he suspected that his old first mate only did it to annoy him.

  The burly Oberjarl stopped, facing Hal. ‘Welcome back. I trust it all went well?’

  Hal nodded. He noticed that Erak had carried out rather crude repairs on the beautiful staff that Kloof had destroyed. He had mounted the silver knob and ferrule on a rather crooked branch that he had found on the foreshore. Erak had never been much of a craftsman.

  The Oberjarl let his gaze travel around the crew, who all nodded cheerfully at him.

  ‘I see you’ve still got that dog,’ he said. Kloof was lying on the jetty, her nose on her paws, her tail swiping the air behind her.

  ‘Um . . . yes. I see you’ve repaired your staff,’ Hal said.

  Erak looked at him coldly. ‘And my axe,’ he said. ‘That boy spent days diving for it in the harbour. Thought I might need it if that dog of yours ever came back.’

  ‘Ah, well, actually, I brought you something from Arrida,’ Hal said.

  Erak stopped pretending to be angry. In spite of his pretended irascibility, he had a soft spot for the Heron and her motley crew of misfits. And he loved getting presents.

  ‘Arrida? What were you doing in Arrida?’

  But Hal brushed the question aside. ‘It’ll all be in my report.’ He turned. ‘Jesper, bring the staff, please.’

  Jesper stepped forward, bearing the scorpion staff that Hal had taken from the Shurmel’s cave. He passed it to Hal, who presented it formally to Erak. The Oberjarl’s eyes glowed as he let his crooked branch staff fall to one side and ran his hands lovingly over the smooth ebony shaft, touching the grotesque scorpion figure with reverence.

  ‘Well now, isn’t that something?’ he crooned softly. ‘It’s a real work of art!’ Erak fancied himself as a connoisseur of fine art, it has to be said. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Hal shook his head. ‘It’s something, all right,’ he said quietly. ‘But I’m not sure if the something is beautiful.’

  Standing apart from the noisy throng, Lydia watched proceedings with a sad little smile on her face. It was times like these when she missed her grandfather most. The Skandians were such noisy, demonstrative and family-oriented people. Apart from the other Herons and Karina, she had no strong attachments in Hallasholm and she didn’t want to intrude on her shipmates’ family reunions. Quietly, she collected her gear and made her way unnoticed to the house in town where she stayed with a kindly widow.

  Several hours later, her landlady found her, sitting on the porch, looking at the sun setting over the ocean. The widow, Agathe by name, was a motherly type. Her own daughter had moved away to another town when she had married recently and she enjoyed having this quiet, reserved girl staying with her.

  ‘What’s this? Not dressed for the party?’

  Lydia looked up. ‘What party is that?’

  ‘There’s always a party to welcome home the duty ship,’ Agathe told her. ‘And seeing how you’re one of the crew, you’ll be one of the guests of honour. Now get yourself bathed and dressed and I’ll brush your hair and make you beautiful.’

  Lydia gave her a wan little smile. ‘Not sure if that’s possible,’ she said and Agathe looked at her for a few seconds, her head on one side.

  ‘You really mean that, don’t you? You have no idea how stunning you can be with that olive skin and those dark eyes and that beautiful glossy hair.’

  The younger woman flushed slightly. ‘I don’t have anything to wear,’ she prevaricated.

  Agathe smiled. She had been expecting that response. ‘Aaah, yes you do. I bought a beautiful yellow dress for you at the market last month. You’ll be the star of the party, believe me!’

&nbs
p; And she was. An hour later, as she walked into the square where tables and casks of ale were set up, and three lambs were roasting on spits, every head turned to watch her.

  ‘Lydia! Good to see you!’ said a familiar voice. She turned to see Rollond, prepared to gently discourage any overtures he might make. She was surprised to see an attractive black-haired girl holding his arm, most possessively.

  ‘Have you met Frieda, my fiancée?’ he asked.

  Lydia smiled sweetly at the girl. She didn’t know why, but she felt a sudden pang of jealousy. It was all right for her to rebuff Rollond’s advances. But for him to find another girl was not quite so easy to take. Rollond and Frieda exchanged a few words with her, then moved off to the food tables.

  She stood awkwardly for a moment, feeling a vague sense of loss and looking for the familiar faces of her shipmates, when suddenly she was engulfed by half a dozen girls her own age.

  ‘Lydia!’ they cried excitedly. ‘Come and join us! You look fabulous! How do you do your hair that way?’

  She found herself being dragged towards the girls’ table, where she was plied with questions and compliments. Truth was, Lydia had become something of a celebrity among the young women of Hallasholm. She was a woman who did things her own way, who joined with her men friends in an adventurous, dangerous life. She was a skilled hunter and tracker. She had fought in battles and was regarded as an equal by the young men who were her shipmates. She had even been indicted into their brotherband – being referred to as a ‘Sister of the Brotherband’.

  In her home town of Limmat, she had been regarded as something of an oddity. Limmatan girls spent their days primping and doing their hair and makeup, not stalking game in the forest. Skandian girls, however, were more inclined to adventure and the outdoor life and, to them, Lydia was a shining beacon, a living example of what a woman could achieve if she set her mind to it. She realised, as they continued to fetch her food and drinks and ask if she could teach them to use an atlatl, or to field dress a deer, that she had made a group of good friends. Looking around their open, welcoming faces, she finally felt that she belonged here. And she felt happiness stealing over her.

  As the night wore on and more ale casks were broached, the revellers began to look for Stefan and Jesper. Eventually, the two Herons were propelled towards a table in the centre of the square.

  ‘A saga!’ the crowd demanded. ‘Let’s hear a saga about your trip!’

  ‘But we didn’t prepare anything . . .’ Jesper said, his face a mask of innocence.

  ‘Oh really,’ Hal muttered, rolling his eyes. He’d seen them with their heads together over the past week, as they noted down lyrics and ideas, foreheads knotted in frowns as they strove for a rhyme or a colourful expression. This mock reluctance was too much, he thought. The crowd howled at Jesper, refusing to accept his excuse. Eventually, with a great show of reluctance, he and Stefan allowed themselves to be hoisted onto the table.

  Erak, his new scorpion staff in his hand, shoved his way through the crowd to stand at the table. He had a full tankard of ale in the other hand and those nearby, knowing what was to come, quickly cleared a space around him.

  ‘Come on!’ he roared. ‘Let’s hear the saga!’ Erak loved a good saga. He even loved a bad one, as a matter of fact, which was just as well.

  Jesper and Stefan grinned at each other and began to sing.

  The Herons! The Herons!

  The mighty, fighting Herons!

  No other brotherband you’ll see

  is even half as darin’!

  Hal raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I had hoped they might have improved that part,’ he said. But after the first two words, the crowd had joined in enthusiastically. They stopped as the boys launched into their first verse.

  We sailed away from Hallasholm, we had to be real quick,

  for Kloof had eaten Erak’s axe and chewed his walking stick.

  ‘Oh, very tactful indeed,’ Hal said, as Erak turned a baleful eye upon him. Erak still hadn’t totally forgiven Kloof for the destruction of that walking stick.

  We sailed across the Stormwhite and we struck a mighty storm.

  We had to wear our woolly caps to keep us nice and warm.

  As they sang those lines, both of them produced their distinctive woollen watch caps and pulled them on. The crowd cheered. Several mothers nodded their approval of such wise behaviour while at sea. Then it was time for another chorus and this time Erak, his anger at Kloof dispelled by the occasion, joined in, singing and beating time with his tankard and staff. People around him were suitably drenched. One had his toe thumped by the staff crashing to earth. He howled and collapsed.

  Jesper and Stefan had agreed to leave all references to Tursgud out of their song. The renegade still had family in Hallasholm and they had no wish to embarrass them.

  We sailed around Cape Shelter and then south to Araluen.

  We called upon the people there to find out what was doin’.

  ‘Oh, that’s very good!’ Erak shouted. ‘Great poetry. Araluen and doin’. That’s genius, sheer genius.’

  ‘The man has a strange idea of genius,’ Hal said quietly. But the rhyming continued to go from bad to execrable.

  We chased an evil slaver to the market in Socorro.

  ‘We can’t rescue them tonight,’ said Hal. ‘We’ll get them out tomorrow.’

  Lydia and the Ranger burned the market to the ground.

  The rest of us, we freed the slaves then headed out of town.

  The Herons! The Herons!

  The mighty, fighting Herons!

  No other brotherband you’ll see

  is even half as darin’!

  The slavemaster named Mahmel was a nasty kind of thug,

  so Stiggy dropped a rock on him and squashed him like a bug.

  The crowd cheered and Stig waved cheerfully to them. After another staff-thumping, ale-spilling chorus, the saga continued.

  We sailed back to Cresthaven and we set the captives free.

  King Duncan said, ‘Well done, my lads, you’re just the boys for me.

  My Ranger Gilan has to go and hunt down some assassins

  So go along with him and give these wicked types a thrashin’.’

  ‘Oh, spare me!’ said Hal. Erak shushed him angrily.

  ‘You just don’t appreciate the arts,’ he said. ‘On the other hand, I’m something of a patron.’

  Hal eyed the grotesque scorpion staff that the Oberjarl was so proudly waving and shook his head.

  A pirate galley barred our way. We quickly overtook ’em.

  And Ingvar led the charge aboard to stab and chop and hook ’em.

  More cheers, for Ingvar this time. Sheepishly, he acknowledged the crowd’s applause.

  We beat the Tualaghi and the Scorpions as well.

  The Ranger stuck his saxe into their leader, the Shurmel.

  When all of the assassins threw a fit of wild hysterics,

  Hal grabbed up the Shurmel’s staff and brought it back for Erak.

  Erak cheered at that and brandished his dreadful staff above his head. The crowd roared. They joined in for two more choruses, agreeing totally that no other brotherband was even half as darin’.

  Hal closed his eyes with a shudder and gave thanks when the song was finally over. Erak grabbed him in a huge bear hug and led him round the square, showing him off to all those assembled as the hero of the hour.

  Half an hour later, the Oberjarl was still expounding on Hal’s wisdom and courage and ingenuity when he suddenly stopped and looked around.

  ‘Where’s my new walking stick?’ he said.

  With a sinking feeling, Hal realised that the scorpion staff, which Erak had laid to one side, was nowhere in sight. Neither, he realised, was Kloof.

  ‘And where’s your dog?’ said Erak, following the same train of thought.

  ‘He’s . . . uh . . . he’s on the ship, guarding it,’ Hal said nervously.

  Erak’s brows drew together. ‘Where’s my axe?
’ he said threateningly, looking round for the weapon. Then Svengal’s cheerful voice rang across the square and Hal felt a huge rush of relief.

  ‘Here’s your spider on a stick, chief!’ called Svengal, brandishing the scorpion staff, which he had found under a table. Gratefully, Erak reclaimed it, smiling forgiveness at Hal.

  ‘Sorry I even thought it,’ he said. ‘She’s a good dog.’

  ‘She is,’ Hal agreed. He moved away, smiling and greeting people who came up to congratulate him on a successful tour as the Araluan duty ship. After a while, his eyelids began to droop and he staved off several yawns. He realised how tired he felt. It had been an exhausting, emotional day to complete an emotional, exhausting tour of duty, and he just wanted to be on his own for a while. He slipped away into the shadows around the town square and left the sound of revelry behind.

  Walking back to his mother’s house, he passed a thicket of bushes and heard another sound, an all too familiar one.

  It was a crunching, grinding sound, overlaid by Kloof’s soft growls of contentment as she worked her jaws on something hard and solid. He pushed the bushes aside and froze in horror at the sight that confronted him.

  ‘Oh, you great, hairy idiot!’ he said. The dog whuffled unrepentantly, wagging her tail as she continued to chew the object she grasped in her front paws.

  The party went on until long after midnight. Gradually, people made their way to their homes and, one by one, the lights of Hallasholm went out.

  Save for the light in Hal’s workshop.

  It burned long into the small hours of the morning as he laboured to fit a new handle to Erak’s grandfather’s axe.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John Flanagan’s Ranger’s Apprentice and Brotherband adventure series have sold more than eight million copies worldwide. His books are available in more than one hundred countries, are regularly on the New York Times bestseller list, and have had multiple award shortlistings and wins in Australia and overseas. John, a former television and advertising writer, lives with his wife in a Sydney beachside suburb. He is currently writing more Brotherband books and several prequels to the Ranger’s Apprentice series.