Scorpion Mountain by John Flanagan
In her hometown 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 realized, 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 revelers began to look for Stefan and Jesper. Eventually, the two Herons were propelled toward a table in the center 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 colorful 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 ax 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 woolen watch caps and pulled them on. The crowd cheered. Several mothers nodded their approval of such wise behavior while at sea. Then it was time for a repeat of the 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 slave master 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 realized that the scorpion staff, which Erak had laid to one side, was nowhere in sight. Neither, he realized, 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 ax?” 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 Araluen duty ship. After a while, his eyelids began to droop and he staved off several yawns. He realized 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 labored to fit a new handle to Erak’s grandfather’s ax.
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John Flanagan, Scorpion Mountain
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