Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  ‘Iqbal!’ he said. He hadn’t recognised his enemy when they had been fighting earlier. Now he could see death staring him in the face.

  Lydia’s dart flashed past him and took Iqbal in the centre of his chest, the force of the missile hurling him backwards against the wall. He sagged down to the catwalk.

  ‘That family don’t have a lot of luck with women who throw things,’ Gilan observed.

  Lydia turned to him, frowning slightly.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, Cassandra walloped his brother with a sling. Now you’ve skewered him with a dart.’

  ‘He deserved it,’ Lydia said.

  But before Gilan could reply, they were interrupted by a terrible wailing cry from the square in front of the gate.

  Wulf was kneeling, tears streaming down his face, beside the still, white-faced body of his brother, Ulf.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ULF WAS LYING on the cobblestones, his head resting on his twin brother’s knee.

  His eyes were shut and he was barely breathing. His face was pale with loss of blood, and it continued to seep from a large wound in his side, soaking into his shirt and spreading in a pool on the ground. Wulf looked up at his friends as they gathered helplessly around. He was distraught, the tears flowing unchecked and his words coming in ragged, disjointed phrases as they fought with the heart-wrenching sobs that burst from him.

  ‘I couldn’t get . . . to him . . . in time,’ he cried. ‘That coward had . . . surrendered to him and . . . thrown down . . . his sword.’ He indicated a Tualaghi warrior who was lying several metres away, staring up at the sky with unseeing eyes. ‘Then, as Ulf looked away . . . the treacherous swine drew a knife and . . . stabbed him in the side!’ He bent over his brother, crooning wordlessly, his tears falling onto the blood-soaked shirt.

  Edvin pushed through the small crowd and knelt beside Ulf, ripping open his medical pack as he did. He looked at the amount of blood on the ground and on Ulf’s shirt and gave a small cry of despair. Then he cut the shirt away from the wound and began swabbing at the slowly seeping blood with a wadded-up piece of cotton.

  ‘At least he didn’t hit an artery,’ he said, more to himself than anyone else.

  ‘How can he tell that?’ Stig asked.

  Hal glanced quickly at him. ‘The blood would be pumping if an artery was severed. It’s just seeping out.’

  ‘Maybe, but a lot of it has seeped,’ his friend replied doubtfully, and Hal could only nod in mute agreement. Ulf had lost a lot of blood – and he was continuing to do so.

  ‘Will Ulf be all right, Edvin?’ Wulf asked, his voice breaking with fear and grief. ‘Can you fix him?’

  Edvin, his head down, was cleaning the wound with a special salve. Then he packed a thick bandage pad against it. The blood continued to flow, rapidly staining the bandage red.

  ‘I’ll do my best, Wulf,’ he said. Until Wulf had mentioned his brother’s name, he’d had no idea which of the twins he was treating. ‘But he’s losing a lot of blood.’

  Selethen slipped through the ring of Herons surrounding their fallen brother. He took in the situation at a glance.

  ‘I’ve sent for my Tabibs. My healers,’ he said, explaining the word. ‘They’ll help you.’

  Wulf looked up quickly, his face a mask of rage. ‘No!’ he shouted vehemently. ‘Nobody touches him but Edvin! Nobody!’

  Edvin looked up from what he was doing, his hands keeping the bandage pad pressed hard against the wound in Ulf’s side.

  ‘Wulf, don’t be crazy. Selethen’s men are trained healers. Compared to them, I’m little more than a glorified bandage roller.’

  ‘I trust you,’ Wulf said. ‘I don’t trust them. I don’t know them!’

  At that moment, two green-robed Arridans made their way through the growing throng to stand over Wulf and his fallen brother. From the fact that they were unarmed and unarmoured, Hal deduced that these must be the healers. But Wulf dropped a hand to the hilt of his saxe.

  ‘Keep back!’ he warned. ‘Nobody touches my brother but Edvin!’

  The older of the two ignored the threat. He went down on one knee beside Edvin, who looked round at him.

  ‘He’s losing blood,’ the Skandian said. ‘He’s losing too much blood.’

  The Arridan nodded. He placed his hand over Edvin’s, applying more pressure to the wound. The blood flow seemed to lessen. Wulf moved threateningly, half drawing the saxe. But as he saw the slackening flow of blood, he stopped and slid the big knife back into its scabbard, uncertain what he should do next.

  ‘Can you help him, Tabib?’ Selethen asked.

  The healer looked up and nodded. ‘I think so, lord. We have a salve that can thicken the blood and slow the blood loss. That’s the main problem. I’d like to get him to our hospital tent right away. We need to check and see that no vital organ has been damaged. But it wouldn’t appear to be the case.’

  Selethen leaned down and placed a hand on Wulf’s shoulder. The young Heron went to shake it off, glaring resentfully at the tall Arridan. But Selethen maintained his firm grip.

  ‘Wulf, the Tabib is a very wise and very skilled healer. And this is his student. They are two of the very best healers in my country. Please let them help your brother.’

  ‘Do it, Wulf!’ Edvin urged. ‘I’m way out of my depth here!’

  Still Wulf hesitated, his eyes flicking from Edvin to Selethen and finally to the Tabib. The latter’s face was calm and composed and Wulf saw a depth of confidence and knowledge in his eyes.

  Gilan joined the discussion. ‘Wulf, the Arridan healers are among the best in the world. They study in the east, in medical colleges that have been teaching for centuries. They’ve preserved the best of the old wisdom, and they’re constantly discovering new ways – new salves and potions and healing compounds. I know of only one man in Araluen who might be their equal. Let them help you.’

  Again, Wulf’s eyes flicked between the men gathered round him. As before, it finished on the older Tabib. The man was calm and composed still. He nodded reassurance to the young Skandian and Wulf’s irrational resolve faltered.

  ‘Do it, Wulf,’ Edvin said quietly. ‘I’ll stay with them. I’ll watch over Ulf every step of the way. I promise. But you have to agree to it quickly. We’re losing him here.’

  That seemed to do it. Wulf leaned back on his haunches, closed his eyes for several seconds, allowing the tears to course down his cheeks unchecked. Then he opened them and nodded slowly.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. There was a collective sigh of relief from the people around him.

  ‘Clear a path,’ the elder Tabib said, gesturing for the onlookers to move aside and allow two of his orderlies through with a litter. Gently, they lifted the stricken Heron onto the litter, with Edvin and the Tabib maintaining their pressure on the wound the whole time.

  At the Tabib’s count, they lifted the litter and began to move carefully towards the gate.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ Wulf said, hurriedly rising. The younger Tabib held up a reassuring hand.

  ‘We have our hospital tent set up outside,’ he said. ‘It’s cleaner and better suited for healing than some dark, dirty room in the town.’

  Wulf nodded and fell into step with the litterbearers. The young Tabib walked beside him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘My master will heal your brother. He has no equal in any country along the Constant Sea.’

  There was a certainty in his voice that did much to allay Wulf’s fears, and calm the panic that had seized him when he saw his brother cut down. He looked at the young healer.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  The young Tabib shrugged. ‘It is what we do,’ he said. ‘And none does it better than Master Maajid. His name means “The Excellent One”.’

  The rest of the group milled around uncertainly, not sure whether to follow the servants carrying Ulf’s still form on the litter. When it came down to it, most of them were reluctant to – none of them liked being in
a hospital or healer’s tent. They lived a violent life and such places were too vivid a reminder of what could happen to each and every one of them at any time. Finally, Hal made the decision for all of them – which was only fitting.

  ‘I’ll go with them,’ he announced. ‘Thorn, Stig, organise the crew and help Selethen’s men round up any Tualaghi who might still want to make an issue of things.’

  His two lieutenants nodded. Thorn touched the body of the dead Tualaghi with his toe. The man still clutched the blood-stained dagger with which he’d attacked Ulf and the old sea wolf gently nudged it out of his fingers.

  ‘No sense in taking chances,’ he said. But Stig shook his head.

  ‘He won’t be attacking anyone again,’ he said. He looked around at the others. ‘Anyone know who settled his hash for him? I assume it was Wulf?’

  Jesper shook his head. ‘Wulf was too far away. And when he saw Ulf go down, he was frozen to the spot. Ingvar took care of it for him. Now that he can see, he can really move like lightning.’

  Thorn and Stig exchanged a meaningful look.

  ‘Hal’s created a monster there,’ Thorn said, looking to where Ingvar was leaning on the shaft of his voulge, out of earshot. In fact, the two dark circles that covered his eyes made him seem like some apparition from another realm.

  Stig nodded. ‘You didn’t help, giving him that overgrown toothpick. He’s a regular terror with that! Did you see him during the battle?’

  ‘I did. Hook, chop, stab. And then some.’

  Thorn clapped the younger man on the shoulder, then began calling orders for the Herons to re-form.

  ‘Come on. We’ve still got work to do.’

  The interior of the medical tent was shady and cool. The sides were rolled up to allow fresh air in, although in the event of bad weather or wind-driven sand, they could be rolled down in a matter of minutes, keeping the interior clean and dust free.

  Ulf was placed on a table covered with a white linen sheet and the two Tabibs began to go to work on him, standing either side of the table and speaking to each other in lowered tones and in their own language.

  At least, Hal assumed it was Arridan. It may have been some secret healers’ language. Wulf stood close by them, watching events like a hawk. From time to time, Tabib Maajid would pause and switch back to the common tongue to explain some point of procedure or the use of a salve or potion to Edvin, who took copious notes as they went.

  ‘This is amazing,’ he said softly, on more than one occasion, shaking his head in wonder. The more they worked on Ulf, the more he realised that these were men of enormous skill and knowledge.

  Hal noted that the blood was flowing less freely now and, when the healers changed the bandage for the third time, it no longer seeped through immediately. He assumed that was the result of the salve they had mentioned.

  Or perhaps, more ominously, the blood flow was slowing because there was less blood in Ulf’s veins.

  They had been in the tent for twenty minutes or so when there was a commotion at the entrance and another litter was carried in. Its occupant was a tall Tualaghi warrior, recognisable by his blue robes, although without the headgear and face veil. Hal could see that his skull was shaved and his dark eyes burned in his face with an intense hatred. He was shouting incoherently and waving his arms and Maajid looked up in annoyance. His pupils left the table beside Ulf and moved quickly to examine the newcomer. After several minutes, he returned, caught his master’s eye and shook his head.

  ‘Nothing we can do for him,’ he said, and Maajid grunted philosophically. They were sworn to preserve life and ease pain, but sometimes there was little they could do to defy fate. As he went back to work on Ulf, the Tualaghi mustered his strength and called out to the orderlies around him.

  ‘Get the Ranger!’ he said. ‘Bring the Ranger to me! Tell him Iqbal Makali has important information for him.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE ORDERLIES STOOD uncertainly, not sure whether to obey the Tualaghi’s command. But Hal, recognising his name, moved towards the litter where the mortally wounded bandit leader lay.

  ‘Do as he says,’ he told the orderlies. ‘He may have vital information for us, and we don’t have a lot of time.’ One of the orderlies turned and ran out of the tent to find Gilan.

  The assistant Tabibs had managed to remove Lydia’s dart from Iqbal’s chest but the wound was a terrible one. The steel-headed shaft had penetrated Iqbal’s lung and the damage was irreparable. There was a pink froth of blood around his lips and Hal knew that was never a good sign. He could see why the Tabib Daanish had determined there was little to be done for the man.

  Iqbal’s gaze, wild and feverish, alighted on the young skirl as he stood by the litter. Recognition showed in the dark eyes.

  ‘You . . . northman. You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re with the Ranger?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hal said. He didn’t really want to engage in conversation with the Tualaghi, but he thought that if he did keep him talking, it might prevent him from sinking into unconsciousness and death.

  A horrible grimace twisted the dying man’s face. ‘Why can’t you people stay in your own country? Why are you always causing trouble in ours?’ he demanded angrily.

  Hal shrugged. ‘Seems like you were the one causing trouble here,’ he said. ‘You were the one who took out the tolfah against the Araluan princess.’

  Iqbal was seized by a fit of coughing and Hal was concerned to see more blood on his chin. Then he recovered, and a look of surprise crossed his features.

  ‘So, you know about the tolfah, do you? Aren’t you clever? Well, much good it will do you.’

  Even mortally wounded, Iqbal’s manner was one of arrogance and superiority. It pricked Hal’s anger. Even though he sensed he shouldn’t antagonise the other man, he couldn’t help it.

  ‘Hasn’t done you much good either, has it?’ he said. ‘I’m not the one lying there with a gaping hole in my chest.’

  Iqbal’s eyes darkened with anger. He was seized by another coughing fit. Then, when he recovered, he resumed his taunting, sarcastic manner.

  ‘Nevertheless, you’ve lost,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing you can do now to save your precious princess. The Scorpions will never give up. They will keep trying until they kill her. How does it feel to know you’ve lost, northman?’

  Hal heard movement at the entrance to the tent and glanced up as Gilan entered. The Ranger looked around, saw Hal by the litter, recognised the dying man on it, and hurried across the tent to stand beside him.

  ‘Why did you want to see me, Iqbal?’ he said, keeping his tone neutral. Iqbal’s lips curled in a sneer.

  ‘Because I wanted you to know that you’ve lost. Your princess is doomed,’ he rasped, his voice strengthened by the venom of anger and malice that ran deep within him.

  Gilan looked quickly at Hal, who shrugged, then he returned his gaze to Iqbal.

  ‘So you wanted to gloat?’ he said.

  The bandit leader nodded vehemently, even though the movement obviously caused him pain.

  ‘Yes. I wanted to see your face when you realised that all this has been for nothing.’ He waved a weak hand around the tent. ‘You may have killed me, but the Scorpion cult will kill your princess. Nothing can stop them. Nothing can save her. They’ll keep trying and, eventually, they will succeed.’

  Gilan frowned, then said in a reasonable tone, ‘That hardly seems likely. After all, you’ll be dead. Your compact with the Scorpions, and theirs with you, will surely die with you. Why should they continue losing men in their attacks on Cassandra? Why should they honour a compact with a dead man?’

  And at that, Iqbal laughed. It was a genuine reaction, although it was full of derision rather than humour. The action obviously caused him pain and once again he was racked by a fit of coughing. More blood welled from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You really don’t understand, do you?’ he said scornfully. ‘You’ve come all this way, had men
killed or wounded, and you have no idea what you’re up against, do you?’

  Gilan said nothing. He was beginning to feel uneasy. Iqbal obviously knew he was dying, yet he’d wanted to see Gilan – wanted to gloat. If anything, Gilan thought, it should be the other way around. Iqbal had lost the battle and would soon be dead. What did he have to gloat about? What was it that Gilan and his comrades didn’t understand about the tolfah?

  Sensing the Ranger’s uncertainty, Iqbal raised himself on one elbow, groaning with the pain that shot through his body as he did, and pointed one crooked finger at his own chest.

  ‘You think the contract to kill your princess is between me and the Scorpions, don’t you?’

  Gilan shrugged. ‘Who else?’ he asked and again Iqbal laughed, scornfully this time. The effort seemed to weaken him and he fell back on the pillow, his eyes closed. He was breathing heavily, trying to draw air into his savaged lungs. The two comrades could hear the rasping in his chest. Eventually, his eyes opened again and he fixed his gaze on Gilan. Looking at those dark, almost black eyes, Hal realised that the man rarely blinked. It was like looking at the eyes of an eagle – or, more fittingly, a vulture.

  ‘I paid the Shurmel to take out the compact against your princess,’ he said. His voice was very low now and Gilan and Hal had to lean closer to hear him.

  Gilan spread his hands in a dismissive gesture. ‘Then I’ll pay him to cancel it.’

  Iqbal shook his head several times. That superior, taunting smile was back on his face. ‘You can’t because the contract is irrevocable,’ he said.

  ‘A contract with a dead man?’ Hal said bluntly. ‘I don’t think so. Once you’re dead, the contract’s over and done with.’