Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  “All very well to relax,” he told himself. “But don’t overdo it.”

  The ground below him looked hard and unforgiving. If he fell off, he’d suffer bruises and abrasions, at the least. And he’d delay their passage to the Amrashin Massif. He shook off the sense of weariness and sat up straighter.

  Then he became aware that Hal had released the sheet, spilling wind from the sail, and the land sailer was rumbling increasingly slowly across the rocky ground until it came to a stop. The sudden silence was remarkable. Stig’s senses had become accustomed to the creaks and groans and rattles of wheels and rigging and the frame itself. Now there was just the constant sigh of the wind out of the south, and the occasional flapping of the sail as the wind tossed it from side to side.

  Hal unwrapped the kheffiyeh from his face, letting the long ends fall down on either side of his neck. He stepped down from his seat and stretched himself, kneading his fists into the small of his back as he leaned backward.

  “Let’s take a break,” he said. “My backside’s killing me.”

  The others agreed wholeheartedly. Gilan stepped down stiffly from his seat and dusted himself off. Clouds of dust flew in the air around him.

  “I feel like I’ve swallowed half the desert,” he said, reaching for one of the water skins, taking a deep swig, then spitting it out on the dry ground. He watched with interest as the damp stain quickly disappeared from the superheated ground. He looked around. On all sides, the empty brown desert stretched away from them.

  “How far do you think we’ve come?” he asked.

  Hal shrugged. “Hard to tell. We’re tacking constantly, so our progress as the crow flies is a lot less than the actual distance we’ve covered. I’d say we’re about twenty or thirty kilometers from the coast. What do you think, Stig?”

  Stig took the water skin from Gilan, rinsed his mouth, then took a deeper drink before replying. Then he nodded.

  “I’d say that sounds about right.”

  Gilan had a further question, one that had been bothering him for some time. “The wind’s behind us,” he said. “Why don’t we run directly ahead of it, instead of zigzagging back and forth?”

  Hal acknowledged the question with a nod. “If we run dead ahead of the wind, I have no way of controlling our speed. We’d just go faster and faster until we were out of control. By slanting across it, I can slow down or speed up as I want to.”

  Stig was looking up at the sun, which wasn’t yet directly overhead. “It’s not noon yet. We’ve got at least four hours of steady wind coming this afternoon.”

  “And if we want to, we could keep going tonight once the wind shifts,” Gilan said.

  But Hal greeted the idea doubtfully. “Don’t think I’d care to go careering around the desert after dark,” he said. “If we hit a large rock or fall into a gully we’ll be in big trouble.”

  Several times that morning he’d been forced to change course suddenly as they went hurtling toward large rock outcrops, and once they had nearly plunged into a dried-up watercourse—known as a wadi to the Arridans. It was a steep-sided gully that was nearly three meters deep.

  Stig shuddered as he thought of what would have become of the frail land sailer had they gone over the edge.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Gilan said.

  Stig rubbed one buttock. He’d been sitting off center and he could feel a bruise forming there from the constant pounding movement of the land sailer.

  “What about our friend from the oasis?” he asked.

  Gilan considered the question, then replied. “If he has any sense, he’ll stop for the night too. You can’t keep galloping across country like this in the dark. His horse could break a leg or fall and roll on him.”

  “What if he hasn’t got any sense?” Stig asked.

  Gilan shrugged. “Then he’ll either beat us to Scorpion Mountain or kill himself trying,” he said. “My vote is for the latter.”

  Hal had moved to the triangular platform ahead of his steering position and was unpacking some of the supplies they had brought with them.

  “Let’s take a break now and eat,” he said. “Then Stig and I can tighten up anything that’s worked its way loose and we’ll keep going till dusk. That should put us more than halfway to the Massif.”

  “And Scorpion Mountain,” said Gilan, as he sliced a haunch of cold roast goat with his saxe knife.

  Hal nodded. “And Scorpion Mountain,” he echoed.

  chapter thirty-eight

  In a cave high inside Scorpion Mountain, the Shurmel gazed out over the brown, shimmering land surrounding the triple-peaked mass of rock.

  The room was one of hundreds of caves and tunnels that honeycombed the mountain, providing accommodation, meeting rooms and worship areas for the Cult of the Scorpion, followers of the goddess Imrika. This particular cave comprised the Shurmel’s personal suite of rooms. It was a huge, sprawling area, befitting his status as the leader of the cult and the High Priest of Imrika. A wide rift in the side of the mountain provided the view of the desert, letting him keep track of the comings and goings of his men—and other visitors to the Scorpions’ lair.

  Less than ten minutes ago, he had seen a rider approaching, spurring his weary horse across the last few hundred meters to the base of the mountain, where a large gallery provided access to the cave complex inside. Any moment now, the man should be reporting to him. The Shurmel had no idea what he might be going to report. But the rider’s obvious haste, and the distressed state of his horse, hinted that it might be important news.

  As he had the thought, there was a tentative knock at the door set into the stone walls of the cave. The Shurmel turned away from the rift in the side of the mountain and faced the door.

  “Come in,” he called softly.

  His voice was deep and almost sepulchral. It fitted his physical appearance. He was a massively tall man, well over two meters in height and broad in the shoulder and body. His skin, unlike the swarthy, coffee-colored complexions of most of his followers, was pale and white. His head was clean-shaven and oiled and his face was adorned with markings of kohl, a black makeup compound often used by dancers and entertainers.

  But there was nothing festive or entertaining about the markings the Shurmel had chosen. His eyes were surrounded by dark circles, giving them the appearance of the empty eye sockets of a skull. And his face was made up to accentuate the skull-like appearance as well, highlighting the cheekbones and deep-sunken cheeks.

  He was dressed in a long, flowing black robe, with silver thread that depicted a scorpion in fighting pose, pincers raised to grip an opponent, sting poised to kill it.

  In his left hand, he carried his staff of office—a two-meter ebony rod with a silver ferrule at the bottom, surmounted by a carved black scorpion in the same posture as the one on his robe, with eyes made from rubies.

  The door opened and admitted a nervous desert nomad. He was dressed in a white tunic, marked by dirt and dust, and a dark green over-robe. His kheffiyeh was patterned in black and green checks. As he entered and stood before his lord, he hastily removed it, twisting it nervously in his hands.

  The Shurmel, well aware of the man’s nervousness, allowed the silence between them to stretch to an almost unbearable point. His dark brown eyes bored into the desert dweller, whom he recognized as a member of one of his vassal tribes. He called these tribes the Ishti. Literally, it meant slaves, although technically they had their freedom and the term was used more in contempt than in any accurate description of their roles. The Scorpion cult had long ago suborned the leaders of several local tribes, forcing them to provide soldiers and scouts for the Shurmel. His own trained assassins were too valuable and skilled for such lowly work. The Ishti kept watch over the surrounding lands for any sign of attack against the Scorpion cult. In such a case, they would fight the interlopers while the cult members silently melted away
into the mountains, to any one of half a dozen different hideouts like the one the Shurmel was currently in.

  He decided the man had spent long enough quaking before him. Naturally, no member of the Ishti would open a conversation with the Shurmel.

  “You have news for me,” he intoned in that same flat, resonating voice. It was not a question. If the man didn’t have news for him, he had no business being here.

  The scout stopped twisting his kheffiyeh for a moment and stammered a reply. “Lord Shurmel, there is a ship . . .”

  The Shurmel raised one eyebrow and turned to look out the large opening at the desert below.

  “Here?” he said, the sarcasm obvious in his voice. “Remarkable.”

  “No, no, lord,” the Ishti hurried to reply. “Pardon my stupidity. The ship is at the coast, by the old city of the invaders.”

  Ephesa, the Shurmel thought. A slight frown touched his features but he dismissed it almost instantly. It didn’t do for the Shurmel to show any sign of uncertainty or doubt. But inwardly, he wondered what a ship was doing at Ephesa. There was nothing of interest there. Anything of value had long ago been looted from the ruins by the Tualaghi or other nomad tribes.

  There was, of course, the oasis. Perhaps the ship had landed to replenish its water supplies. That was possible, he thought. But it was second nature to him to suspect any new arrival or unusual event in the immediate vicinity of Scorpion Mountain.

  “And what is this ship doing? Where is it from?”

  The scout shrugged, a fearful expression crossing his face. He had left the coast as soon as the Heron had been sighted. He had no information other than the fact that she was there.

  “Its crew came ashore, lord. I’m not sure where they’re from. The ship is similar to those used by the pale northerners. I left two of my comrades there to continue to observe and came immediately to inform you of its arrival.”

  “And little else, unfortunately,” the Shurmel said in a sour tone. “How big is this ship?”

  Occasionally, Skandian wolfships had penetrated this far east. Some had gone even farther. If this was a wolfship, he would need to take notice. The pale northerners were savage fighters—although they rarely came as far inland as the mountains.

  The scout wet his lips. He wasn’t sure whether the ship would be classed as big or small. “There are perhaps a dozen in the crew,” he said finally.

  The Shurmel turned away and paced for several seconds, thinking. Normally, a northern ship could carry forty or fifty men. Obviously, this one wasn’t a raider. But he didn’t like strangers in his territory—or even near it.

  “It’s small then,” he said to himself and the Ishti eagerly agreed, now that the size was established.

  “Yes, lord. It’s a small ship.”

  The Shurmel regarded him, his lip curled scornfully. “I don’t need you to repeat my thoughts.”

  The Ishti bowed his head. “Pardon, my lord. I merely . . .” He was going to amplify the apology but, faced by the Shurmel’s withering stare, realized in time that the Shurmel did not tolerate babblers. He let his voice tail away to silence. Eventually, the Shurmel looked away. He thought for a few minutes, then called to the guard outside his door.

  “Fattah!”

  The door opened to admit the sentry. “Yes, lord?”

  “Notify the head of the guards that there is a foreign ship at the old city. He is to take . . .” He paused, thinking. The scout had estimated the crew’s numbers as a dozen or less. “. . . a company of fifty men and destroy it.”

  “And the crew, my lord?”

  “Destroy them also.” The Shurmel had no idea what this foreign ship was up to. If they were, in fact, replenishing their water supplies, they would be gone by the time his men reached the coast. If they were still there, they were probably up to no good and should be disposed of.

  “As you order, lord.” The sentry saluted and left the room.

  The Shurmel stood silently for some time. Eventually, he turned back to the nervous scout, who was still turning his headdress round and round in his hands.

  “You’re still here,” he said.

  The man nodded several times. “Yes, lord.”

  Again, that eyebrow was raised in an expression of surprise and disdain. “Why?”

  The Ishti gulped and began to back toward the door. “Your pardon, lord. I’ll go now. Imrika preserve you.”

  The Shurmel waved one languid hand at the man, shooing him out of the room. “I’m sure she will,” he said. He resumed his position at the window, staring out over the desert, looking to the north as if he might see this ship. Behind him, the door closed quietly.

  • • • • •

  Zafir al Aban stirred as the morning sun finally traveled high enough to light his face. He turned his face away from the brightness and heat, muttering fitfully. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked around.

  He was lying flat on his back on the rough desert ground. His body ached in several places and his head throbbed painfully. There was a sore point at the back of his skull and he touched it gingerly, his fingers coming away wet with blood. He tried to sit up and failed, the effort merely causing him pain in his body and head. Carefully, making sure not to move too quickly, he rolled onto his side, then his stomach, and brought his knees up under him. He rose shakily to his feet, reeling a little and staring around himself through red-rimmed eyes, trying to reconstruct the events of the night before.

  A few meters away lay the body of his horse, an inert mass that showed no sign of life. Already, scavenger birds were hopping around it, and one, bolder than the rest, was perched on the horse’s side. As Zafir watched, it tore a strip of flesh away from the body. Zafir lurched awkwardly toward it and waved a hand to drive it away. The effort nearly sent him tumbling back to the ground. His knee was stiff and painful and there was a torn muscle in his thigh.

  He stopped, wiping a hand over his face, feeling the clammy sweat there, and tried to remember what had happened.

  The strange ship had landed near the old city. That much he remembered. He had been on patrol there with two companions and they discussed what they should do. Eventually, they decided to send one of their number back to the Shurmel, to alert him of the arrival of the ship. The remaining two would keep watch over the newcomers.

  Now it came back to him. Three of the foreigners had left the city in a strange vehicle—a three-wheeled structure with a sail—that moved as fast as a galloping horse. They were headed southeast, toward the Amrashin Massif. Obviously, they were looking for Scorpion Mountain. Zafir had set out after them, hoping to outdistance them and warn the Shurmel of their approach. As night fell, he had a small lead over them. He elected to continue riding through the night, and that had been his downfall—literally as well as figuratively.

  He had failed to see a hole in the ground—an animal’s burrow, perhaps—and his horse had put one foot in it and somersaulted, throwing him over its neck to land on the rocky ground with a crash. He remembered hearing the sharp report of the animal’s cannon bone fracturing. Then he hit the ground and everything went black.

  Obviously, the horse hadn’t survived the fall. Zafir had only done so because he had been thrown clear. He looked up into the glaring blue sky overhead. Already, more and more kites and buzzards were circling, ready to alight on the new source of fresh meat that lay on the desert below them.

  Zafir limped the short distance to the horse. Thankfully, his water canteen was on the upper side, as was his scabbarded sword. He untied them both, slung the canteen over his shoulder and stood to contemplate his next course of action.

  Originally, he had planned to warn the Shurmel of the approach of the three foreigners in the strange wind-driven vehicle. But now, without a horse, he realized he would arrive several hours after them. He would merely be confirming bad news, never a good thing to do with the
Shurmel.

  Shrugging, he came to a decision. There was a small tribe of nomads who frequented the desert some twenty kilometers to the west. He would join them and beg for their hospitality.

  Anything to avoid the vengeance of the High Priest of Imrika.

  chapter thirty-nine

  Hal brought the land sailer up into the wind and released the tension on the sheet.

  The sail flapped back and forth as the force of the wind was released and the three-wheeled vehicle slowly trundled to a halt. The three companions sat silently for a few seconds, staring in fascination at the massive, triple-peaked mountain ahead of them.

  It was part of the huge range of towering mountains that stretched across the horizon. But it was separated from the rest of the mountains, standing a little apart from the central spine of the range.

  “That has to be the place,” Gilan said eventually.

  Hal nodded. “It certainly looks like a scorpion.” He squinted his eyes and studied the three peaks.

  The center peak was taller than the others, which were roughly the same height. All of them rose to pointed summits, and when viewed through half-closed eyes, an observer could make out the delineation of an angry scorpion. The two side peaks formed the raised pincers and the central peak took on the shape of the sting, poised high to pierce its prey. The mountain itself was black rock, which heightened the impression. There was a sense of foreboding about the place, a sense of evil, Then he shook his head and dismissed the fanciful notion. I’m reacting to the sinister name, that’s all, he thought. If this were called Buttercup Mountain, I wouldn’t have the same feeling.

  His head agreed. His heart and his imagination thought otherwise.

  Stig obviously agreed with the latter sentiment. “I don’t like the look of this place,” he said. “There’s a bad feeling about it. The sooner we’re done and out of here, the better I’ll feel.”