The men on the rafts saw them moving and realized there was no further need for secrecy. They began to shout—whether it was war cries or calls of encouragement to one another, Thorn had no idea. He smiled mirthlessly.
“Go ahead and waste your breath,” he said. He glanced back to the beach, where three men stood at the water’s edge, urging on the paddlers.
“Attack! Attack!” shouted the one in the middle, obviously the commander. “Kill the invaders! Leave no one alive!”
His voice carried clearly over the water and his men responded with a hoarse chorus of cheers as they redoubled their efforts at the paddles. And, as so often happens in such cases, they lost their rhythm and technique and the paddling became ragged and haphazard.
“Faster! Faster!” screamed the man on the beach. “No prisoners! Kill them all!”
He spoke in the common tongue, which Thorn found a little strange. In fact, there was a good reason for it. The Ishti were recruited from half a dozen different tribes in the region, each with its own separate dialect. The common tongue was used for all battle commands, to avoid confusion.
Although, on this day, the opposite was about to happen.
The first raft bumped alongside the starboard side. An Ishti warrior seized the bulwark and dragged the raft closer. Then, as he began to heave himself up over the gunwale, he looked up in horror as Thorn appeared over the rail. The heavy club-hand swept down and smashed the man aside. He fell awkwardly, half in the water. The raft tilted crazily under him and one of his comrades went over the side. Spluttering and gasping in a panic, the man seized the raft’s side and tried to haul himself back aboard, setting it rocking and plunging once more. Another would-be boarder, off balance from the violent movements of the uncertain platform beneath him, staggered wildly, windmilling his arms for balance. Thorn’s sword caught him in the middle of the chest and he fell into the sea without another word.
The raft, listing badly to one side and not under control, drifted slowly away from the Heron’s side, the remaining four men on board searching frantically for their paddles.
But now the second raft was thudding into the Heron’s starboard side, and another had crashed heavily into the bow, where Wulf, Jesper and Stefan thrust and hacked at its occupants with sword and ax.
“Wait till they’re almost on board,” Wulf called to his companions. “Then hit them with everything you’ve got!”
Stefan and Jesper complied. There was a moment of opportunity as the boarders swarmed up onto the bulwarks—a split second where they were off balance and vulnerable. The three Herons took advantage of it and four of the boarders went over the side in quick succession. Two of them struggled to regain their position on the raft. The others floated clear, facedown, trailing ominous ribbons of blood in the water.
As the port-side rafts made contact, Ingvar let out a bellow of fighting rage and lunged with his voulge over the side. The blade stabbed in and out like a striking cobra, and three of the Ishti fell back from the ship in terror. But another raft had closed with the ship farther aft and two men made it unscathed to the deck.
One of them went no farther. A heavy dart flashed along the deck and thudded into his chest. He collapsed and crashed over onto the rowing benches. The second man took in his companion’s fate and yelled a challenge to Ingvar, who was standing with his back to him, the voulge now flashing in a giant circle like an ax.
Ingvar didn’t hear the challenge and didn’t see the threat. But as Lydia was reloading with one of her dwindling supply of darts, a black, white and tan blur streaked along the deck and, leaping the last two meters, smashed into the Ishti warrior, driving him to the deck, screaming in fear.
“Good dog, Kloof!” Lydia shouted, lowering the dart she had been about to cast.
The man, miraculously disentangling himself from the snapping, snarling dog, wasted no energy in counterattack. He simply scrambled for the rail and heaved himself over it, hoping that there might be a raft below him.
There wasn’t. The warrior was wearing a heavy mail shirt. He hit the water with a mighty splash and never resurfaced. Kloof, frustrated by his escape, stood with her paws on the rail, barking furiously at the roil of disturbed water where he’d disappeared.
The second raft on the port side was relatively unscathed. The senior man on board gestured toward the stern of the Heron, where there were no defenders, and yelled orders to his men. They dragged their clumsy craft along the side of the ship and swarmed over the rail, halfway to the stern. One of them instantly flew back over the rail again as a dart hit him. But the other four began to advance on Lydia, who stood defiantly, with only a dirk to defend herself.
Then the voice of their commander cut through the confusion, loud and clear.
“Retreat! Retreat! It’s a trap! Back to the beach now!”
The four men hesitated. The girl was so close, and looked utterly vulnerable. Perhaps that’s what decided them when their commander repeated his warning.
“It’s a trap! Get out now!”
As one, they turned and scrambled back over the side onto their raft, and began paddling away toward the beach. The men on the other rafts heard the warning too. They disengaged and pulled away from the ship.
Thorn looked around, puzzled. “What the blazes just happened?”
On the beach, the commander of the Ishti was near apoplectic with rage as he saw his men withdrawing. “What are you doing? Attack! I tell you!”
Then, the same voice rang out again. “Retreat! Retreat! It’s a trap!”
Thorn looked around wildly, then saw Stefan leaning against the bow post, his hands cupped around his mouth. Stefan shouted again, mimicking the enemy commander’s voice perfectly.
“Back to the beach! It’s a trap! Look out! Sharks!”
It was the last word that really tipped the balance. The men on the rafts redoubled their efforts at the paddles and drove their cumbersome craft back to the beach in record time.
Only to be greeted by their furious commander, who strode among them, slapping faces and striking out with the butt of his spear.
“Cowards! Idiots! What are you doing?”
Stefan watched the performance with interest, then shouted through cupped hands—once more in the commander’s voice.
“Don’t let him do that to you! He’s an impostor! Stick a sword in him!”
Then he collapsed in laughter, Wulf and Jesper slapping him on the back triumphantly. Thorn strode over to the three of them.
“Nice work,” he told Stefan. “I knew you’d come in useful one day.”
Ingvar and Lydia joined the others in the bow. “That seems to have sent them packing,” Lydia said.
Thorn nodded, frowning. “It won’t work twice,” he said. “That was a near-run thing. Next time, we’d better be ready to get under way.”
chapter forty-nine
For one wild moment, Hal considered flight. But the land sailer was secured for the night, its sail lowered and furled along the boom, and the ring of approaching horsemen would be on them before he could get it hoisted.
He cursed himself bitterly for falling asleep and putting his companions in danger.
“Gilan, Stig,” he called, his voice bitter with the sense of failure. “Wake up. We’ve got company.”
Stig and the Ranger woke immediately. They were experienced warriors and were ready to wake and fight at the slightest sound of alarm. They tossed their blankets aside and rose to their feet, seeing the silent ring of horsemen closing in on them. In one flowing movement, Gilan slung his quiver over his shoulder, selected an arrow and nocked it. His bow was already strung. In enemy territory, Rangers always kept their bows ready. In the words of his old mentor, An unstrung bow is a stick.
At the same time, Stig stooped to the ground beside his bedroll and seized his ax. He stood now with it held across his body, his left hand balancing the weigh
t just below the gleaming head.
“Seems we were wrong about Scarface,” he said quietly. Then he let a savage grin break over his features. “Well, if they try and take us, they’ll end up a few men short.”
Hal had been scanning the line of horsemen. They were now only a dozen meters away and still no word had been spoken. There must have been sixty or seventy of them and he realized that resistance was useless.
The horsemen stopped. Only the muted jingle of harness fittings and the creak of leather as their horses shifted their feet broke the silence. Their leader, in the center of the line, unwound the ends of his kheffiyeh and flicked them back over his shoulders so that he could speak.
“Who are you? And what are you doing here?”
Something about the voice struck a chord of recognition in Gilan’s memory. He lowered his bow and stepped forward a few paces, peering intently at the rider. If he was one of the Shurmel’s men sent to pursue them, why would he ask such questions?
In the growing light, he could see that the troop of horsemen all wore kheffiyehs that had a yellow-and-white-checked pattern. It was that detail that allowed his memory to click into place.
“Umar?” he said. “Umar ib’n Talud, Aseikh of the Khoresh Bedullin tribe. Is that you?”
The rider leaned forward to peer more closely at Gilan, then urged his horse forward a few paces. The riders flanking him began to move to accompany him but he waved them back, walking his horse forward alone until he was only three meters from the Ranger.
Hal, watching closely, could make out the man’s features now. His nose was large and hooked, and at some stage had been badly broken. He wore a dark beard and his eyes were dark, almost black, and piercing. As Hal and Stig watched, the puzzled look on the rider’s face vanished, and was replaced by a huge smile. His white teeth shone against the dark background of his beard.
“Friend Gilan!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
He swung down from his horse and rushed to embrace Gilan. He was a big man and he literally swept the slim Ranger off his feet in a huge bear hug. He roared with laughter, then held Gilan away from him to study him more closely.
“Yes! It is you! May the almighty one be praised!”
Then Gilan, who had only just regained his breath, lost it all again in an explosive gasp as the Bedullin leader swept him into a crushing bear hug once more. The nomad riders behind him exchanged puzzled glances, although there were grins of recognition on the faces of several as they, too, recognized the Ranger.
Eventually, Gilan managed to disentangle himself and step clear of the Bedullin chief. Umar, however, overwhelmed with pleasure at seeing an old friend once more, kept making incipient attempts at another bear hug, which kept Gilan backing warily away. Eventually, the Ranger found the time to indicate his two companions, who were watching with rather mystified smiles on their faces.
“Aseikh,” he said, using the Bedullin title for the leader of a tribe, “these are my friends, two Skandians by the name of Hal and Stig. Boys, this is Umar, leader of the Bedullins.”
“Skandians!” Umar roared with delight as he shook hands with the two young men. “I know your Oberjarl well. Oberjarl Erak! A wonderful man! You know I rescued him from the clutches of the Tualaghi, all by myself!”
“You did?” said Hal, grinning. He had heard some of the details of Erak’s capture and subsequent rescue.
Umar placed one hand on his chest, in a dramatic gesture. “I did! And I did it singlehandedly!” he declaimed.
Gilan coughed gently. “Perhaps with a little help, Umar?” he suggested.
The big Bedullin shook his head diffidently from side to side. “Well, surely, Ranger Gilan was there, and Rangers Will and Halt. Oh, and the mighty Araluen warrior Horace and the beautiful princess Evanlyn. And of course, your countryman, Svengal. But apart from that, I was all alone!”
“And apart from a hundred and twenty of your warriors,” said Gilan, indicating the semicircle of riders, some of whom were openly grinning at Umar’s wild exaggeration.
“Well, of course one hundred and twenty of my warriors!” Umar boomed. “But they were a ceremonial guard. No Bedullin Aseikh would think of traveling without a small retinue! But I stress, apart from those paltry numbers, I performed the feat entirely on my own.”
“They still sing praises to your name in our home country,” Stig said, a huge grin on his face. Umar bowed to him in mock modesty.
“As well they might, friend Stig. Tell me, how is your Oberjarl Erak?”
“A little overweight and very loud,” Stig replied.
Umar fingered his chin thoughtfully. “Hasn’t changed then?” he said slyly. He and the two Skandians exchanged smiles. Then he clapped his hands together, all business. “But tell me, my friends, what brings you to the desert? And what is this amazing vehicle you’re traveling in?”
“We’ve been at Scorpion Mountain, dealing with the Shurmel of the Scorpion cult of assassins,” Gilan told him. “There was a tolfah taken out against Princess Evanlyn.” He used the name she had traveled under when she had led the mission to rescue Erak. “My King sent me here to have it rescinded.”
Umar’s brows drew closer together at the mention of the Scorpions. “A vile business. Who would threaten the life of such a beautiful and virtuous lady?”
“It was Iqbal, brother of the treacherous Yusal,” Gilan said. “He wanted revenge for his brother and he dealt with the Scorpion cult to get it.”
“But you say there was a tolfah? How did you manage to have it lifted? I thought once they were in place, they could not be altered.”
“I killed the Scorpion leader,” Gilan told him calmly. Umar regarded him for several seconds, then nodded repeatedly in recognition.
“That was well done, friend Gilan. The Scorpions are a blight upon our land. It’s well past time that someone blunted their sting.” He frowned thoughtfully. “But I understood the Shurmel was a mighty warrior?”
Gilan shrugged. “He was big. But not very skillful,” he said dismissively. “But tell me, Umar, what brings you here? You’ve crossed the border out of Arrida.”
Umar snorted disdainfully. “Borders are lines drawn on a map. True nomads like the Bedullin ignore them completely. We had heard talk of a wonderful machine that flew across the desert with no sign of anything to drive it.” He nodded toward the land sailer, some meters away. “I take it this is that machine?”
Gilan smiled. “Indeed it is. And it was built by my young friend here.” He indicated Hal. Umar regarded the young Skandian with interest and a degree of respect.
“Indeed? I must see it in motion later.” He paused and his expression darkened. “There was another reason why we came here. My scouts told me that a large party of the Shurmel’s warriors had left Scorpion Mountain and were crossing the desert.”
His expression and the tone of his voice left little doubt as to his feelings about the Shurmel’s Ishti.
“I take it you have no love for the Shurmel’s men?” Hal said.
Umar nodded bleakly. “They are evil servants of an evil man. The Scorpion cult has been a thorn in our side for many years. But whenever we try to corner them, they melt away into their mountain labyrinth. We thought for once we might catch some of them in the open and teach them a lesson.”
The three travelers exchanged glances. It was Gilan who replied. “Well, we happen to know where you might find them—and only a few hours away. They’re at the ruined city of Ephesa, trying to capture our ship.”
A slow smile spread over Umar’s swarthy face. “So we are between them and their hideout?” he said. “How interesting. I think we might pay these people a visit, and let them see how unwise it is to show their noses too far from their evil mountain.”
“We’d be delighted to accompany you,” Gilan said.
Umar’s expression changed to one of r
egret. “I’m afraid we have no horses to spare, friend Gilan. We’ll need to travel fast and we have only those we ride and our remounts.”
Gilan smiled and gestured to the land sailer. “We’ll make our own way,” he said. “And our transport doesn’t get tired or need resting or replacing.”
“Indeed?” Umar arched one eyebrow at them, then smiled. “I learned long ago not to doubt the claims you Rangers make. I can’t wait to see this wonderful machine of yours in action.”
“Just don’t get too close behind us.” Gilan smiled. “Our dust might sting your eyes.”
chapter fifty
As the daylight strengthened and the land began to heat up, the wind veered. Edvin and Jesper transferred the anchor rope to the stern of the ship, keeping the bow pointed at the beach.
Thorn stood, one foot on the for’ard bulwark, watching events on the beach. Several of the rafts, which had been built in haste, had been damaged in the violent maneuvers that accompanied the first attack. Lashings had come loose and paddles had been lost. The Ishti warriors, under the scornful eyes of their commander, attended to these minor details, refastening the bamboo logs together and shaping new paddles from smaller pieces of bamboo.
There was a hangdog look to the desert riders as they went about their work. The foreign ship seemed to mock them, sitting placidly on the water only fifty meters offshore, unharmed and unaffected by their initial attack. Yet they had lost several comrades.
It was all very well for their commander to berate them and call them cowards and poltroons. But he hadn’t faced the terrible wrath of the one-armed sailor with a giant club in place of his missing hand. Or the giant with the blackened, skull eye sockets who wreaked such havoc with his long half-spear, half-ax weapon. They understood now that they had been tricked into withdrawing from the fight. Truth be told, none of them regretted it, nor were they overeager to mount another attack. There might be only half a dozen of the enemy, but they were skillful and merciless fighters. Besides, there was also that monstrous devil of a dog, and the girl whose missiles had struck down their friends.