Scorpion Mountain (16 page)

chapter
twenty-six

I
shtfana
'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 one, over his left arm and drew his sword from its scabbard.

Briefed by Thorn on the journey up the coast, the Arridan troops formed two lines behind the Skandians, who were in their traditional wedge shape, with Thorn at the apex, flanked by Stig and Ingvar, who was reveling 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 harbor 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 harbor 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 toward the explosive powder wrapped in the cloth. Gilan swung the bow up to near vertical, drew back and released. The arrow soared upward, trailing an almost-invisible thread of gray smoke behind it.

All eyes swung up to watch it. All except Thorn's. His eyes were slitted as he watched the Tualaghi facing them, waiting for the moment when the exploding arrow would distract them.

“Ready . . . ,” he growled.

It came. The arrow, almost at the apogee of its flight, suddenly burst in a cloud of white smoke. A second later, they heard the dull
crump
of the chemicals erupting.

There were exclamations of surprise from the men facing them, and in that moment, while their attention was on the drifting cloud of smoke, Thorn gave his time-honored command.

“Let's get 'em, boys!” he yelled, and charged full tilt at the half circle of Tualaghi facing them.

The flying wedge of Skandians slammed into the center of the enemy line, driving half a dozen of the Tualaghi back, leaving four of them on the stone surface of the wharf. Axes rose and fell, shield smashed against shield, swords flashed and cut. And, in the center, Thorn's terrible club-hand rose and fell and swept from side to side, breaking bones, cracking ribs, sending enemies flying.

The Tualaghi line buckled and folded around the Skandian force on either side, to be met in turn by the Arridan troops arrayed behind them. The fighting became general, with men on either side seeking an opponent and hacking and thrusting and shoving at him.

Gilan and Lydia stood back, one on either side, watching to see if a sneak attack might threaten one of their comrades. Gilan's bow and Lydia's atlatl were both loaded and ready. But in the confused mass of fighting, shoving troops, it was too difficult to single out an enemy. The odds of hitting one of their own were too high.

It was the Skandian wedge that made the difference, as was so often the case. Thorn's club, Stig's ax and Ingvar's thrusting, hacking voulge took a terrible toll of the defenders. The defensive line wavered, then broke as the blue-robed warriors began to retreat. At first they went a step at a time, still facing their attackers. Then, as more of them fell to that dreadful trio of weapons at the head of the wedge, they began to move more quickly.

Then they were running for the shelter of an alleyway behind them, leading away from the wharf.

“Come on!” yelled Thorn, leading the charge after them. But as the group surged forward, he roared another order. “Don't break formation! Maintain the wedge!”

It was the wedge formation that gave them the strength to break the line, with each man in the wedge capable of supplying support and assistance to the men beside him. If they broke that pattern, they could be isolated and picked off as individuals by their more numerous enemy.

Accordingly, Thorn slowed the pace of their advance to a fast walk, with the wedge still in place and the Arridans supporting either side.

And it was this delay that gave Dhakwan the chance to rally his men and launch a counterattack.

The lieutenant shoved his way to the head of the jostling mob as they struggled through the narrow alley. By the time the retreating Tualaghi emerged into a small plaza at the end of the alley, he was in position to confront them. He stood before them, arms spread wide to contain them, his scimitar gleaming a threat in his right hand.

“Stop!” Dhakwan screamed. He dragged the blue veil down from his face so that they would recognize him. “You're running like women! Now stop. Turn and face the enemy!”

Gradually, the panic began to seep away. The warriors looked at the men either side of them, shamefaced. Seeing their returning confidence, Dhakwan seized the opportunity.

He pointed to another, narrower alley leading out of the plaza, on the far side. “We'll make a stand there!” he shouted. “At the far end of that alley is another plaza. We'll meet them there where they're restricted in the alley and we have room to move. And we will annihilate them!”

He pointed with his sword at the dark entrance to the alley across the plaza. From the far end of the one his men had just taken, he could hear the steady tramp of feet as the Skandian wedge, supported by the Arridans, advanced.

The Tualaghi began to stream across the plaza. Again, Dhakwan's booming voice, echoing off the buildings surrounding them, nipped any incipient panic in the bud.

“Move quickly. But steadily!” he shouted. “Hold your formation. Rear ranks, turn to face the enemy. Those in front, steady them as they march.”

Obediently, those in the rear of the Tualaghi force turned to face their pursuers. The men in front of them placed hands on their shoulders to guide and support them as they walked quickly backward to the alley.

They had just plunged into the second alley, moving at a steady pace, when the Skandians emerged from the first. Thorn glanced around, saw the last of the defenders drifting back into the shadows of the second alley, and motioned his men forward.

“Come on!” he shouted. “At the double!”

The Skandian wedge, followed by the Arridans, double-timed across the small plaza. From upper windows, veiled women and curious children peered out at the two groups of foreigners engaged in a battle for their town.

Thorn plunged into the shadows of the alley. At the far end, he could see the Tualaghi force emerging into the sunlit open space of yet another plaza. Slowing down a little more, to make sure their formation remained intact, he led the combined force forward.

“This is all taking too long,” he muttered. It had been some time since Gilan had shot his signal arrow. Selethen and his men must now be engaged at the main gate, with no sign of any help from within. He had hoped to scatter the Tualaghi defenders who faced them, sending them running in panic at his sudden, unexpected attack. But the alarm had been raised too soon and he could see that the leader of the enemy group had his men well in hand, and was staging a carefully controlled retreat.

On top of that, he estimated that they were facing nearly sixty men—out of a reported force of two hundred. Iqbal could hardly manage to commit such a large proportion of his available troops away from the main attack. Somebody must have got the numbers wrong, he thought grimly. There were more Tualaghi in the harbor town than they had been led to believe.

He reached the end of the second alley and stopped. In the sunlit plaza outside, the Tualaghi had stopped retreating and were formed up in a crescent line again, facing their pursuers.

“Shields!” Thorn bellowed, as the line facing him surged toward him, swords swinging, spears thrusting. Instantly, he found himself engaged in a desperate battle. He had nearly thirty men behind him but no more than half a dozen could force their way out of the alley at any one time.

Fortunately, that half dozen was made up of some of the finest warriors he had ever served with. Stig and Ingvar hacked and thrust and stabbed at the surging line of Tualaghi. Hal fought with his usual controlled ferocity and skill, deflecting attacks and darting his sword forward in lightning thrusts that sent enemy soldiers reeling or sprawling to the cobblestones. The four of them forced their way forward and Ulf and Wulf emerged to widen the line, facing out on either side at the warriors who were trying to envelop them. As the Herons fought their way forward, more of the crew joined the battle, slowly forcing the enemy line back.

Then the Tualaghi came at them with renewed energy and desperation, and they were forced to give ground. Behind them, confined in the alleyway, the twenty-five Arridans shouted in frustration, desperate to get into the clear and join the battle.

Gilan and Lydia, unable to take part in the battle without endangering their own men, met at the rear of the force.

“We should have taken a dozen men down one of the parallel alleys,” Lydia said. “That way, we could have launched a flanking attack on them.” But Gilan shook his head.

“There are too many of them. We'd need a bigger force to make that work. A dozen men attacking from the flank would be cut down in short time. We'd need thirty or forty and we don't have them.”

Lydia frowned, then looked up at him. “I think I know where I can find them.”

She turned and, running lightly, headed back across the plaza for the wharf.

chapter
twenty-seven

S
elethen saw the white cloud of smoke blossom over the town, then heard the muted
thump
of the exploding chemicals. He drew his sword and turned to one of his lieutenants.

“They're in the town,” he said. “It's time for us to go. Make sure the riders with the ladders are close behind us.”

His subordinate turned in his saddle and checked the line of riders ready to follow the
Wakir
into battle. Devoid of any heavy siege towers or assault machinery, Selethen's men had constructed three light ladders to aid their attack on the walls of Tabork. Each one was supported between two riders. He made eye contact with the ladder carriers now and received their nods of confirmation. They were ready.

“Stay close!” he called.

Selethen's plan was a simple one. They were currently hidden from sight on the reverse slope of a shallow hill some two hundred meters from the southern gate—the main access way into the town. On his command, the troop would gallop across the open space to the town, trusting to their speed to minimize any losses from missiles shot by the defenders. Once at the walls beside the main gate, they would dismount and turn their horses loose. The three ladders would be placed against the wall, and with a little luck, some of them might reach the top and give cover to their comrades below. The Skandians, reinforced by twenty-five of Selethen's troopers, would hopefully fight their way through to the gate from the opposite direction, taking the defenders by surprise and opening it to admit the bulk of Selethen's men into the town. Success depended on speed and surprise, catching the defenders from two sides.

“Stay close to the walls!” Selethen called to his men. He'd already dinned this into them. If they stood out from the walls, they would be easier targets for the defenders above. Huddled close in the lee of the fortifications, they would be protected, unless the Tualaghi leaned out through the battlements to shoot at them. And when they did that, they would be exposed to return shots from the attackers' short but powerful bows.

“Ready!” He raised his sword, then swept it down to point straight ahead. “Charge!”

He jammed his heels into his stallion's ribs and the horse leapt away, going from a dead stop to full speed in a matter of a few meters.

Behind him, he heard the thunder of hooves as his men followed him, spreading out in a ragged line, their pennants and headscarves streaming behind them in the wind. This wasn't an ordered cavalry charge, where each man and horse had to maintain a strict position in the line. This was a matter of crossing the open ground between them and the walls in as short a time as possible. Out to his right, he saw a trooper overtaking him, forging ahead.

Then the man went down, his horse somersaulting beneath him and sending him flying headlong into the rocky ground. A cloud of dust obscured them and Selethen had no idea whether it had been the man or the horse who had been hit by an arrow.

He could hear the arrows buzzing past his ears now as the Tualaghi singled him out as the leader and tried to pick him off. He swerved his horse violently and a salvo of arrows flashed through the space he had just occupied. One of his riders had unslung his own bow and was fitting an arrow to the string, controlling his horse with only his knees. Selethen shouted to him.

“Save your arrows! We'll need them at the wall!”

Accurate shooting from a plunging, galloping horse would be virtually impossible, he knew. Better to wait until they were at the base of the wall. An arrow tugged at his sleeve, jerking him around in the saddle. He saw another two riders go down, then saw a spear striking sparks off the rocks as it hit and rebounded.

If they were within spear range, there were only seconds to go. He looked up at the wall, towering above him. He could see the blue-veiled heads of the defenders peering over it, and from time to time, a defender was visible from the waist up as he stepped into one of the crenellations for a clearer shot.

A platoon commander a few paces ahead of him reined in, drew back his arm and cast his spear at one such Tualaghi. The blue-robed figure staggered back from the wall, transfixed by the heavy spear.

Then Selethen was sliding his horse to a stiff-legged halt, clouds of dust billowing around him as his men did the same. Throwing his leg over the pommel, he released the reins and dropped to the ground, instantly breaking into a run as he dashed for the walls.

All around him, horses were neighing and whinnying as they kicked up extra storms of dust and their riders dismounted. The horses, no longer under control, trotted aimlessly as their riders scrambled for the vestigial shelter at the base of the walls.

The dust and the blundering horses served an unforeseen purpose, providing cover for the dismounted men, distracting and unsighting the Tualaghi on the walls. Selethen saw two of the ladder carriers running forward to the wall. He went with them, beckoning to a group of five troopers to follow.

“Bows!” he shouted to them. “Clear the top of that wall while I go up. Then come after me!”

One of them, a corporal with years of battle experience, nodded his understanding. As the ladder crashed against the top of the wall, bouncing out once, then settling again, he mustered the other four men to its base, bows ready.

“Go on, lord!” he shouted to Selethen. “We'll cover you.”

At that moment, a blue-veiled face appeared above the wall as its owner tried to shove the ladder back. Three of the bows thrummed loudly and the Tualaghi screamed and fell back. Two of the shafts had found their mark. Two more would-be defenders were picked off and Selethen realized he was wasting time. He leapt for the ladder and ran lightly upward, feeling the springy wood bending and flexing under his weight as he ascended. An arrow from below hissed just over his head, and he heard a cry of pain from the battlements above him.

Then he was at the top. He felt the ladder vibrating as one of his men began to follow him up it. A defender to his left raised a spear, then dropped it as an arrow took him in the armpit. Another came at Selethen from the right, thrusting with a spear. Selethen deflected the heavy weapon with his sword, then chopped back at the enemy, the razor-sharp curved blade cutting into the man's shoulder and neck. The
Wakir
snatched his sword free as the man fell, then vaulted over the battlements onto the catwalk behind them. Three more defenders rushed at him and he stood firm, parrying their blows with an iron wrist, then, when one of them overreached, darting the tip of his sword forward like a striking snake. Behind him, he heard two more of his men coming over the wall, dropping onto the catwalk with him. A third was less fortunate. A Tualaghi archer standing back from the fight felled him with an arrow. The man hung over the empty space at the top of the ladder for a moment, then toppled back down onto the hard ground below.

Now there were more Tualaghi archers running onto a redoubt that stood out from the wall thirty meters away, allowing them a clear shot back at the men at the base of the wall and any who tried to mount the ladder.

“Shields!” Selethen yelled to his men below. “Shield wall and roof! Now!”

The men bunched together, the front rank dropping to their knees and raising their shields into an angled wall facing the archers. Those in the second rank crouched to take cover, and brought their own shields up over their heads. The group now presented a protective steel barrier to the archers. They were relatively safe behind the shield wall and roof, but they couldn't go anywhere without being shot. They were trapped.

Selethen brought his attention back to his immediate situation—and not a moment too soon. A Tualaghi swung a murderous two-handed stroke at him with a huge scimitar. Selethen swayed to one side to evade the blow and cut at the man's upper arm.

His sword bit through the chain-mail shirt the man was wearing over his blue robe, and sliced through the flesh and muscle, cutting to the bone. The desert raider screamed in pain as the sword fell from his hands. He stumbled away, doubled over, trying desperately to stanch the blood flowing freely from the wound. Selethen grunted in satisfaction. He was out of the fight, just as surely as if the
Wakir
's blow had killed him. Selethen parried another sword, jabbed back at his attacker's eyes, visible above the blue veil, and sent him reeling back in panic.

“Get your backs to the wall!” he shouted at his two comrades, and the three of them slowly gave ground until the rough stone of the wall was against their backs. With their rear safe from attack, they faced out at the remaining three sides, defending desperately, attacking when they had the opportunity. Selethen noted that one of the other troopers had blood running down his right leg.

“Hurry up, Gilan,” he muttered under his breath. “We can't hold out here for long.”

• • • • •

Lydia ran onto the wharf, her soft-soled boots making a grating noise on the crushed gravel that formed the surface. Edvin was now aboard
Ishtfana.
He waved to her and she headed gratefully for the galley. Since they had been gone, he had hauled the
Heron
alongside the larger ship and tied them together. Kloof, seeing him wave, stood up on her hind legs to peer over the bow of the galley and barked a cheerful greeting to Lydia.

Kloof!

Lydia clambered up onto the ship, then stepped down onto the foredeck, absentmindedly patting Kloof's huge head as she did so.

“What's the rush?” Edvin said. “Is there some kind of trouble?”

“There's plenty of trouble,” she told him. In spite of her run back to the wharf, she wasn't even breathing heavily. Lydia was in excellent condition and, as a hunter, she had spent years running down fast-moving prey. “There are a lot more defenders than we were told and we're badly outnumbered. The crew are bottled up in an alley by about sixty men and can't make headway. If we don't get them moving, Selethen's force will be wiped out.”

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 realized 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 Brotherband or be dragged back into captivity. After a long pause, the original speaker asked a question that set her heart racing with hope.