And then they couldn’t keep it up any longer. Hal’s crestfallen expression was too much to resist. They both burst out laughing, the others in the group following suit.
“Of course we want to see!” Thorn said, clapping an arm around Hal’s shoulders. “We’ve been wondering all day what you’ve come up with.”
Lydia looked around the camp. “Where’s Edvin?”
Hal gestured with a thumb toward the hippodrome. “He’s just putting the finishing touches to the sail.”
Stig looked at him in surprise. “The sail? You’ve been building a ship? Why?”
Hal grinned at the double questions, then answered them both.
“No and you’ll see,” he said. The cryptic reply left Stig more confused than before. But Thorn was also looking round the campsite.
“More to the point, where’s Jesper? I left him on watch,” he said, an ominous tone creeping into his voice. Hal shrugged easily.
“Oh, he was asleep when I came back about ten minutes ago. Kloof barked like mad, but she didn’t wake him. He looked so tired I thought I’d let him sleep on.”
Thorn’s shaggy eyebrows came together in a scowl. “I’ll let him sleep permanently when he wakes up,” he threatened.
Hal turned his head to one side curiously. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” he said.
“Jesper will understand,” Thorn replied. He walked to the pole where the ram’s horn was hanging, took it down, then continued to the small tent where Jesper was curled up on his blankets, a cherubic smile on his face. “What lovely dreams he must be having.” Then, raising the horn to his lips, he blew a shattering blast of noise.
To those watching, it appeared that Jesper levitated straight off his blankets, rising half a meter into the air. Then, suddenly wide awake, he scrambled round on all fours, feeling for the sword that lay beside his sleeping space.
“Alarm! Alarm!” he cried, his voice breaking with panic and surprise. “We’re under attack! Alarm! Al . . . ”
He trailed off as he realized that his friends were standing around him in a semicircle. He saw the horn in Thorn’s left hand and understanding dawned on his face.
“Oh . . . ,” he said. “You’re back then? Just closed my eyes for a second—”
“We’ve been back five minutes,” Thorn said cuttingly. “And Hal has been back for longer than that. But of course, you knew that.”
“What? Oh . . . yes. Of course I did. Funny that Kloof didn’t bark. Bad dog, Kloofy!” He turned to the massive dog, waving an admonishing finger at her. She rolled back her top lip in what could only be construed as a sneer. Hal looked at her, surprised. He’d never seen a dog sneer before.
“I left you on watch, Jesper,” Thorn said. “Remember: Oh yes, Thorn, trust me. I’ll blow the horn to wake the dead. Kloof did her job. But then, she has more brains than you.” He regarded the dog quizzically. She wagged her tail. “And I never thought I’d use the words Kloof and more brains in the same sentence. If you ever sleep on watch again, you’ll be the permanent bilge bailer for the next two years. Understood?”
Jesper hung his head in shame. “Understood, Thorn,” he mumbled.
Thorn regarded him in silence for some seconds. He thought the message had got through—until next time, at least. Then he lightened his mood and turned back to Hal.
“Come on. Show us your latest invention.”
Hal gestured for them to follow him and they all began to straggle along behind him. Jesper, after a moment’s hesitation, joined in. But Thorn stopped him with a finger prodding into his chest.
“Not you,” he growled. “You stay on guard. And stay awake!” The last two words were delivered in an angry shout.
Jesper flinched then nodded hurriedly. “Yes, yes! Of course, Thorn! Whatever you say! Tr—”
Thorn’s eyes blazed with anger and he held that forefinger up in a gesture commanding silence.
Jesper had a vague memory that he might have said “Trust me” earlier. He hastily changed his statement. “Try and stop me! I’ll be here on watch.”
“You’d better be,” Thorn told him. Then he turned and followed the others on the way to the hippodrome.
• • • • •
It stood in the center of the racetrack outside the stable room where they had discovered the chariots.
It was a large but rather spidery structure—a triangular frame some six meters wide by five long, built from springy bamboo trunks.
The central spine was made from the thickest piece of bamboo. At the rear end, two outriggers, each three meters long, angled out to either side. They were braced by two struts, bamboo again, running back to the other end of the spine. At the end of each outrigger was one of the chariot wheels. A third was placed at the front of the main spine. That wheel appeared to be free to swivel, with leather ropes running back to a rudimentary seat at the rear end of the spine.
A series of lighter struts connected the spine to each of the outriggers, creating a triangular platform at the rear third of the spine.
Rising high above the three-wheeled vehicle was a five-meter length of bamboo, secured at the forward end just behind the steering wheel, and braced by a backstay that held it in a slight curve. A triangular sail had been slipped over this mast—a sleeve sewn into one side of the sail for this purpose. At the base of the mast, a light boom ran backward, attached to the sail at several points.
A rope ran through two sets of pulleys—one on the spine and one on the boom—to allow the boom to be controlled by the person occupying the rear seat. Each of the outrigger poles was also fitted with a simple seat, with handholds and footrests, about halfway between the spine and the wheel.
For several moments, the group looked at this remarkable giant tricycle in awed silence. Finally, Stig asked the question they all had on the tips of their tongues.
“What is it?”
Hal smiled proudly and moved to stroke the wood near the central seat with a proprietorial air. “It’s a land sailer,” he said. “It’ll sail across land rather than the ocean. The sail will catch the wind to power it—and there’s plenty of that. The wheels will help it roll across the desert. I can steer it by the swiveling wheel at the front—just as I’d use a rudder to steer a ship. The bamboo is flexible so it’ll absorb the shock of running on rough ground. I couldn’t manage to rig a second yardarm like the one on Heron, so I’ve used a boom to control the sail at the lower side. It means a smaller sail, but it’s simpler to handle.”
Lydia was walking around the strange vehicle, staring up at the curving mast with something approaching awe.
“Will it work?” she asked quietly.
Hal smiled at her. “You mean does it work?” he replied. “And the answer is yes. Edvin and I have given it a test run here in the hippodrome. We’re reasonably sheltered from the wind in here but it still managed a respectable speed. And it tacks and jibes quite nicely. I figure with a decent wind on our beam, it’ll be about as fast as a cantering horse.”
“Except it won’t need to be rested and watered like a horse,” Thorn said thoughtfully and Hal nodded, glad he’d made the point.
“Exactly. It’ll keep running all day, rolling along hour after hour, eating up the kilometers. I estimate it should get us to the Amrashin Massif in a day and a half, instead of the three or four days we’d take walking. That way, we’ll be there before the Shurmel knows we’re on our way.”
Gilan shook his head in wonder at the amazing contraption. The more he saw of Hal, the more he admired the young man’s obvious genius for invention and improvisation.
“You keep saying ‘we,’” he pointed out. “Who might that we be?”
“You, of course,” Hal replied instantly. “You’re the one who’ll have to negotiate—or otherwise—with the Scorpion leader. I’ll be the helmsman, naturally. And the third place will go to St
ig.”
Stig grinned at the news. But instantly there was an outcry from the others. The loudest protests came from Thorn, Ingvar and Lydia, who all wanted to accompany them to the Amrashin Massif and Scorpion Mountain. But Hal was adamant.
“There’s only room for three,” he said.
Thorn protested instantly. “I accept that you and Gilan have to go. But I could take Stig’s place. You might need some extra muscle when you encounter these Scorpions.”
Hal regarded him calmly. “Stig will provide plenty of muscle,” he said. “You’re both good fighters, but you’re a better commander than Stig and I need you to lead the defense of the camp here. It’ll be no use ending the tolfah against Princess Cassandra if we lose the Heron in the process.”
Thorn subsided, grumbling quietly. But he could see Hal had a point.
Ingvar had a different outlook. “Leave them both here,” he said. “I’ll come with you. Now that you’ve fixed my eyesight, you know I can scatter those Scorpions like ninepins.”
But again, Hal had an unarguable reason for his choice. “Without you, the Mangler will be useless, Ingvar,” he pointed out. “And if the camp comes under attack, we’re going to need it to bring the odds down.”
And Ingvar, too, had to admit that Hal made sense. Lydia looked to be about to protest in her turn, but Hal cut her short.
“Same goes for you, Lydia. We might fit you on board. You’re light enough, of course. But without Gilan’s longbow, your darts will be our only long-range defensive weapons. You can carve up any attack with them. Plus you’re the only other one trained to use the Mangler.”
“Are you so sure there’s going to be an attack?” she asked.
Hal eyed her for several seconds before he replied. “I’m convinced there is.”
PART FOUR
SCORPION MOUNTAIN
chapter thirty-seven
The sun had been up for forty minutes. As the temperature rose, the wind began blowing from the north, growing in strength with each minute.
The land sailer stood ready, outside the main gate of the hippodrome. Water skins, bedrolls, weapons and food had been loaded onto the triangular platform ahead of the helmsman’s position. The sail was raised to its fullest extent, but so far was unrestrained. It slapped back and forth in the wind without any tension on the sheet to hold it in position. As it moved, the spidery structure swayed slightly and the boom rattled back and forth.
Hal adjusted his kheffiyeh, the Arridan desert headdress that Selethen had provided for the crew. He drew the trailing ends across his face and twisted one over the other to hold it in position. His face and head were now protected from the sun and the wind. He climbed aboard the central seat, taking up the sheet that controlled the sail in one hand and the steering lines to the front wheel with the other. He glanced at his two companions, waiting to board. The rest of the crew stood in a half circle to see them off.
“Day isn’t getting any younger,” he said, and Gilan and Stig moved to their positions, climbing gingerly onto the outriggers, setting their feet in the footrests, and gripping the handholds. Hal smiled under the kheffiyeh as he noted they were gripping rather more tightly than might be required.
“Just relax,” he called to them. “Don’t try to fight the movement. Go with it.”
They both nodded. Their faces were obscured by their kheffiyehs as well. But he could see there was no relaxation of the tension in their bodies. He began to draw in the sheet and the rope squealed softly through the pulleys, taking up the slack until it began hauling the sail in and tightening it against the wind.
There was the usual whoomph as the sail caught the wind and filled, forcing the boom out to port. Hal felt the tension in the sheet increase and hauled in a little more.
Creaking and rumbling, the land sailer began to move across the hard, rocky ground. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed as Hal heaved on the steering lines and brought the strange vehicle round to a position where the wind lay on their starboard beam.
As it began to move, the watching crew took an involuntary step forward, then another, keeping pace with the three-wheeled land sailer as it bumped and jounced over the rough ground. Then Hal hauled in tight on the sheet and the spidery craft accelerated suddenly, shooting ahead of the small group of onlookers, leaving them behind as it hit its pace.
Thorn and the others stopped, looking in wonder as the land sailer skimmed across the rough ground, bouncing and rattling as it gathered speed. Then, without anyone suggesting it, they all began to cheer.
Stig turned to wave at them, nearly lost his seat as the land sailer hit a bump, and snatched frantically at his handholds. The group cheered again.
Gilan, gripping tightly to his own handholds, turned to look at Hal, who was leaning forward eagerly, like a rider on a spirited horse. The analogy seemed appropriate, Gilan thought. He began to move with the motions of the land sailer, relaxing his muscles instead of fighting the movement by staying tense. Instantly, he felt more comfortable.
The rigging and mast groaned and the wheels rattled and rumbled, occasionally leaping over a larger than usual rock. The whole frame creaked alarmingly as it flexed over the uneven ground. All in all, the land sailer was making a considerable amount of noise.
“Does it always do this?” Gilan yelled. He saw Hal’s head turn toward him. Even though only his eyes were visible above the kheffiyeh, he was sure the skirl was grinning in delight.
“How would I know?” came the muffled reply. “I’ve never done this before!”
He hauled in the sheet a little further and the sail tightened. The upwind strut, the one Gilan was sitting on, began to rise as the starboard wheel lifted from the ground, skimming the surface of the desert, coming back to rest every five meters or so. Hal gripped the steering lines and sheet in one hand and gestured with his other for Gilan to move farther outboard.
Tentatively, Gilan slid his rump along the flat wooden seat built onto the outrigger. There was another handhold farther outboard and he transferred his grip to it. As he moved out, the spar began to sink back to the ground again, until they were running on three wheels once more. The faster they went, he noticed, the smoother their passage became. It seemed that the impacts with the ruts and rocks and hillocks were smoothed out by their increased speed.
On his outrigger, Stig had noticed the same thing. He glanced down at the brown earth flashing past underneath them and grinned. Hal had estimated that they’d travel as fast as a cantering horse. But this close to the ground, with only half a meter separating him from the hard-packed sand and rocks, it seemed much faster. He looked up and glanced inboard at his friend.
“You’ve done it again,” he said in admiration. But his words, muffled by the kheffiyeh wrapped round his face, were drowned by the rush of wind and the constant vibration of the speeding vehicle. A flash of movement out to their right took his eye and he craned round to see more clearly. A rider had burst from the concealment of the oasis and was galloping flat out to the south, paralleling their base course.
It was one of the observers who had kept an eye on them for the past two days. He heard Hal call and looked back inboard. His friend was pointing at the distant rider and Stig nodded his head emphatically to show that he had seen him.
“Off to warn the Shurmel,” he said, although he knew Hal would never hear him.
He had begun to become accustomed to the swooping, soaring movement of the land sailer. Just as Gilan had used his horseman’s instinctive movements, Stig employed his ingrained seaman’s ability to match himself to the regular, plunging motion.
They careered on, moving faster and faster as Hal became more accustomed to the feeling of the land sailer and brought the sail in harder, always stopping short as a wheel began to lift.
Then Stig and Gilan heard him shout and they both turned to look at him. He had the reins and sheet in one
hand and was making a circular motion over his head with the other. Then he jabbed a pointing finger out to starboard.
The meaning was obvious. He’s going to come about onto the opposite tack, Stig thought, and took a firmer hold of the bamboo handles in front of him. Gilan did the same. Then Hal heaved on the tiller ropes and brought the land sailer’s head round, releasing the sheet as he did so.
The speed dropped away as the land sailer’s head came round, the wind driving the sail through the turn. Then Hal hauled in on the sheet again and the sail filled and tightened. The speed began to build up once more and, within a few minutes, they were flying again on the opposite tack.
“Just like a ship,” Stig murmured. Now they were racing on the port tack, the frame rumbling and groaning and vibrating as loudly as before. Ahead of them, and a little to starboard, he could see the distant horseman, galloping frantically, his horse’s hooves kicking up puffs of dust that were instantly left behind in his wake. The rider turned to look at them, then redoubled his efforts with his riding whip and the horse began to pull away from them once more.
“You won’t keep that up all day,” Stig said, echoing the thought Thorn had voiced about the comparative speeds of a horseman and the land sailer. He glanced astern—he couldn’t help using shipboard terms in his mind—and saw they were leaving an impressive rooster tail of brown dust behind them. The buildings of Ephesa were fading into the distance. Only the tallest could still be seen.
“We’re really moving,” he said to himself. And once more, he shook his head in admiration of Hal’s inventiveness.
After some time, they lost sight of the galloping horseman. They were traveling on slightly divergent paths, and in any event, the land sailer had to change direction back and forth in order to capture the beam wind that would give them their best speed. Stig sat on his outrigger, swaying to the motion of the land sailer, lulled by the repetitive rumbling, creaking, groaning noises of its passage. At one stage, he caught himself on the verge of falling asleep and jerked himself upright.