Iqbal’s eyes flashed round to assess him for a few seconds. He shook his head dismissively. ‘You people are so ignorant of our ways. The compact cannot be bought off. Even I couldn’t change it or cancel it now, if I wanted to. The compact isn’t between me and the Shurmel . . .’
Gilan shook his head irritably. ‘Who is this Shurmel you keep mentioning?’ he demanded, and Iqbal’s gaze went back to him. Again, the bandit shook his head.
‘As I say, you know so little about what you’re facing. The Shurmel is the leader of the Scorpions – the sworn servant of Imrika, the goddess of destruction. I paid him to take out the compact, but not with me. It’s between him and the goddess. Nobody can interfere with that now. Nobody can change it. Nobody can stop it. The contract remains in place for the lifetime of the Shurmel himself. Only death can cancel it – the death of your princess Cassandra.’
Gilan felt a cold hand close over his heart as he heard Iqbal’s words. They had been warned that the Scorpions were no ordinary cult of assassins. Their beliefs were based on a warped religious system, and their goddess Imrika was a pitiless taskmistress. He could see how the cult would continue to send men to kill Cassandra and he realised she was condemned to a life of constant watchfulness and fear.
The Ranger had hoped that Iqbal’s death would dissolve the compact. Obviously, that wasn’t the case.
Hal had been listening closely to the exchange. Now, he could comprehend the tone of victory that had underpinned Iqbal’s words, even though the bandit knew he was dying.
‘So the contract stays in force for the lifetime of the Shurmel?’ he said.
Iqbal turned to him. ‘Until the death of the princess. Finally, it appears you understand,’ he sneered. ‘There is no other way to end it.’
‘Unless we kill the Shurmel,’ Hal said slowly. And he had the satisfaction of seeing a momentary flash of doubt in Iqbal’s eyes.
The bandit leader’s eyes closed. His chest rose and fell for a few seconds, his breathing ragged and irregular. Then, without warning or preamble, it simply stopped and Iqbal Makali, leader of the blue-clad tribe known as the Forgotten of God, was dead.
‘I’ve found out more about the Scorpion cult,’ Selethen said.
It was the evening of the battle for Tabork. Gilan, Hal, Stig, Thorn and Lydia were dining in Selethen’s tent. Hal was interested to see that the tent was comfortably furnished, but not sumptuously. Selethen was essentially a soldier and tended to frown on excessive luxuries in the field. As he had said to them when he welcomed them to his tent, a good cook was more important than silk curtains and satin cushions. Instead, they sat on comfortable linen cushions around the low table. There was a carpet spread out on the desert sand, but it was a practical woollen weave, rather than a highly ornate design. It was functional rather than splendid.
His comments about a good cook were well founded. They had dined on tender young goat, minced and cooked with spices, and accompanied by hot flat bread. The delicious dish known as tabouleh was in plentiful supply, as was a salad of bitter green leaves with a tart dressing made from lemon juice and oil.
Now, as the servants cleared the plates away and set out bowls of sliced oranges and melon, and the Herons and Gilan helped themselves to the excellent coffee Selethen’s staff had provided, the Wakir spread out a map of the Arridan coastline along the Constant Sea.
‘One of Iqbal’s lieutenants knew something of the cult and he was somewhat forthcoming in telling us about them – eventually.’
Hal looked up at the last word. He didn’t think it would be politic to ask what had brought about the Tualaghi’s ‘eventual’ willingness to discuss the Scorpions.
If Selethen noticed the reaction, he showed no sign of it. He tapped a table knife on a part of the coast at the eastern end of the Constant Sea. They all leaned forward to study the chart.
‘Their headquarters are here, in the Amrashin Massif, a range of mountains just across the border between Arrida and Baralat. It’s close to the entrance to the Assaranyan Channel, but about forty kilometres inland, to the south-east.’
He looked up at them, seeing all their faces intent on the map, measuring distances and calculating times.
‘It’s a three-week ride from here, through some very harsh territory,’ he told them.
Hal scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Barely four days if we sail up the coast to this point.’ He indicated a spot on the coast level with the mountain range.
Thorn nodded. ‘Still a three-day march inland,’ he said. He tapped a town marked on the map at the point Hal had indicated. ‘What’s this?’
Selethen shook his head. ‘It was a city – a big one. The Toscans colonised the area decades ago and this was their major trading port – Ephesa. They abandoned it forty years ago as their empire began to collapse. But there’s a large oasis there. It’d make an ideal base for you – a good point to strike out inland. And as you say, it’s a three-day march to the Massif. The ground is flat but the heat in the middle hours of the day is prohibitive. Your marching time would be limited.’
‘Pity we can’t fit horses aboard the Heron,’ Hal said thoughtfully.
‘Who says?’ Thorn demanded.
‘Who says we can’t fit horses?’ Hal asked.
Thorn shook his head emphatically. ‘Who says it’s a pity? I’m content to do my own walking, thanks. I’d rather sore feet than a sore backside.’
Hal smiled. Thorn’s dislike for travel by horseback was well known. Still, he thought, it would be useful if they had some way of travelling more quickly across the desert than walking. He’d have to give that some thought.
Selethen continued. ‘Scorpion Mountain, which contains a complex of caves and chambers, is in the Massif. Apparently, it’s easily recognised. From a distance it looks like a scorpion, with three separate peaks. The two outer ones resemble the pincers of a scorpion and the middle one, the highest of the three, looks like the tail raised to sting. It’s the headquarters for the Scorpion cult.’
‘Heavily defended?’ Gilan asked.
Selethen shook his head. ‘The Scorpions maintain a force of several hundred troops, in addition to the assassins themselves. But getting in isn’t a problem. After all, people have to be able to approach them to take out compacts like the one involving your princess.’
‘What about getting out?’ Lydia asked.
Selethen looked at her for several seconds before answering.
‘That might not be so easy.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
HAL STOOPED TO enter the hospital tent. The side flaps were rolled up for ventilation, but there was still insufficient headroom beneath them to walk straight in. He headed for the spot at the rear of the tent where canvas screens kept Ulf’s litter private from the rest of the beds. The beds on either side of the long tent were occupied by Arridan troopers wounded in the fight for Tabork. He was pleased to see that there was only a small number of them. One section was guarded by armed cavalrymen. The beds there held Tualaghi wounded. Interesting, Hal thought. Many leaders would have left the enemy wounded to their own devices. Selethen was obviously a far more civilised man than that.
The roof of the tent bellied upwards under a sudden increase in the wind. The wind was a constant here, he realised. You became so used to it that you rarely noticed it, unless a stronger than normal gust like this one disturbed the fabric of the tent. He stopped at the screen enclosing Ulf’s bed and pulled it to one side. Wulf was sitting on a stool by his brother’s side, his head bent over the still figure on the bed. Tabib Maajid was performing one of his regular inspections of the wounded Heron. He had his palm on Ulf’s forehead, testing his temperature. Then he bent and, drawing back the bedclothes, sniffed carefully around the site of the bandaged wound. He looked up and saw Hal watching.
‘Sometimes our sense of smell can give us the first warning of infection,’ he explained.
Hal gestured to the figure in the bed as Maajid returned the covers to their place.
‘Any sign there?’
The Tabib shook his head. ‘So far so good.’
Wulf continued to bend over his brother, holding one of his hands in both of his own, his eyes riveted on Ulf’s pale face. He showed no sign that he had noticed Hal’s arrival.
‘How is he?’ Hal asked. Ulf had been under the Tabibs’ care for several days now. Maajid considered for a few seconds before he answered.
‘He’s very weak. And he’s very sick. There was internal damage caused by the knife. We were able to repair it and, fortunately, nothing vital was affected. If we can keep him clear of infection, I’m confident that he will recover. But it won’t be tomorrow, or even next week. He’ll need care for many weeks.’
Hal frowned at that. ‘Will you be able to look after him for that long?’ he asked. He assumed that Selethen and his force would be moving on in the near future. But Maajid smiled and nodded.
‘We will be here for as long as it takes. I’m keeping him here, out of the town, because the air is cleaner. That way, there’s less chance of infection. Lord Selethen has a lot to do here in Tabork, re-establishing the normal order of things. Many of the ruling council of the town were killed when Iqbal and his bandits took over. That has to be addressed.’
‘We need to sail east in a few days,’ Hal said.
Maajid nodded. He’d expected as much.
‘He will be safe with us,’ he said calmly. ‘I would advise leaving him here. Moving him could be dangerous.’
‘I’ll stay with him,’ Wulf said and Hal looked at him in surprise. It was the first sign he’d shown that he was taking any notice of what they were saying. The sail trimmer’s eyes were red from weeping and his face was drawn. He’d eaten little since Ulf had been brought here, spending most of his time crouched by his brother’s side. Hal glanced up at Maajid now, his eyes asking a question: Is that wise? The Tabib shook his head slightly.
‘I need you on board,’ Hal said. He intentionally kept any note of pity out of his voice. It was an order from the skirl to one of his crew. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maajid nod approval.
But Wulf shook his head violently. ‘I can’t leave him, Hal! He’s my brother! He’s dying . . . I can’t –’
‘He’s not dying!’ Hal snapped. ‘You just heard the Tabib say he would be safe here with them. And you can’t do anything here for him.’
‘But he’s my brother. I –’
‘We’re all your brothers, Wulf. I’m your brother. Stig’s your brother. And Thorn and the rest of the crew. You swore an oath to every one of us when we formed this brotherband. We all depend on one another. I need you on board. The ship needs you. Your brothers need you.’
‘But if something happens to him –’
‘If something happens to him, your being here will do nothing to prevent it. Do you think Ulf would want you to break your oath? Would he, if the situation were reversed? Would he betray his ship, his skirl and his brotherband?’
Wulf’s eyes dropped. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Finally, he spoke, in a small voice.
‘No.’
Hal allowed his voice to soften. ‘Wulf, I need you. There’s nothing you can accomplish by staying here. There’s plenty for you to do on board the Heron. I need you more than ever now that Ulf is injured.’
He let his hand drop onto Wulf’s shoulder and squeezed it. Wulf looked up at him, studying his face. He saw compassion there. And friendship. And need. He saw the strength of the bond that tied the Herons together and he made his decision. And at that moment, Ulf stirred and his eyes fluttered open.
‘Wulf?’ he said, his voice weak.
Wulf turned back to his brother. Maajid hurried to crouch beside the bed, studying the wounded youth, placing a hand on his forehead to check his temperature, then placing a finger against the big artery in his neck. Sometimes, he knew, a sudden awakening like this could presage a crisis. But Ulf’s temperature and pulse were normal.
‘Ulf? What is it?’ Wulf said. He was filled with hope as this was the first sign of consciousness or awareness that his brother had shown since he had been wounded. He grasped his hand again. Ulf nodded weakly, then opened his lips and tried to talk. For a few seconds, no words came. He moistened his dry lips with his tongue, then spoke deliberately.
‘Don’t . . . break your . . . oath. Don’t.’
For a second, Wulf felt pressure against his hand. Then Ulf’s eyes fluttered closed again and his hand went limp. Panic rose in Wulf’s chest.
‘Ulf?’ he said frantically. ‘Ulf? Are you all right?’
Maajid had been monitoring Ulf’s vital signs and he nodded reassuringly.
‘He’s all right. He’s resting. It took a lot of effort for him to say that,’ he added meaningfully.
Wulf tore his gaze away from his brother’s face and looked up at Hal. ‘All right. I’ll come with you. But if anything happens . . .’
Hal squeezed his shoulder a little harder. ‘Nothing is going to happen. Understand? In fact, it’s going to be a lot more dangerous where we’re going. If you want to worry about something, worry about that.’
Wulf looked up at him and Hal grinned reassuringly. Wulf tried to grin in return. It was a faint effort, but it was something, Hal thought.
‘Stay here with him until we’re ready to leave,’ he said. ‘That won’t be for a day or two so you may well see some improvement.’
‘Thanks, Hal,’ Wulf muttered.
The skirl took a deep breath, made eye contact with Maajid and mouthed the word Thanks. The Tabib nodded and Hal turned and left the hospital tent.
That evening, Hal strolled along the wall with Selethen and Gilan while they discussed plans for the voyage east.
‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to come with you,’ Selethen said. ‘I’ve got a lot on my hands here, trying to get the town back in order.’
‘Maajid said you’d be here for some time,’ Hal said.
Selethen looked at him. ‘How is your wounded man doing?’
Hal glanced out at the desert, past the lights of fires in Selethen’s camp outside the walls, into the deep purple darkness to the south.
‘Maajid is confident that he’ll be all right,’ he said finally and the Wakir nodded in satisfaction.
‘If Maajid is confident, then I’m sure he will be.’
The wind, which had been constant all day, gradually died away. The rustling flags and awnings on the battlements lay still and undisturbed for a few minutes, then they began to stir again. But now the wind had shifted to the south. Hal, whose life depended so much on the wind, took notice. He turned around, facing the new breeze, smelling the hot, dry scent of the desert.
‘Does it always do that?’
Selethen and Gilan looked at him in surprise.
‘Does what always do that?’ Selethen asked.
Hal gestured vaguely at the air around them. ‘The wind. It just backed to the south. It’s been blowing from the north all day, and it just backed.’
‘Oh . . . yes. It does,’ Selethen replied. The wind wasn’t as big a factor in his life. He was used to it and he accepted it. He frowned now as he tried to explain it.
‘During the day, the sun heats the desert so the hot air rises. And the cooler air from the sea sweeps in. Then, at night, the desert cools and loses its heat. The air over the sea is relatively warmer and the breeze shifts.’
‘Every day?’ Hal said, looking around with interest. His brow was furrowed.
Selethen nodded. ‘Every day. Sometimes, if it gets too strong, it whips up a Khamsin – a dust storm.’ He smiled at Gilan. ‘You remember what that’s like?’
Gilan nodded emphatically. ‘Only too well.’ On his previous visit to Arrida, the mixed party of Skandians and Araluans had been caught in a devastating dust storm. ‘The sand was everywhere. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.’
But Hal wasn’t listening to their exchange. He was continuing to look upwards, turning his face to the south so that the steady bree
ze fell directly on it. The breeze grew stronger by the minute. Heron would make good speed under it. He frowned as the others continued to reminisce about the dust storm that had engulfed them some years previously. He barely heard them.
There was something significant about this breeze, he thought. Something significant about the constant, unvarying wind that blew throughout the day.
It seemed to him that there was a problem he’d been thinking about and that this factor might have something to do with it. He tried to summon up whatever it was that he had been thinking about but, as was always the case, the harder he tried, the more the idea receded.
Finally, he sighed with frustration. ‘I’m sure it’ll come to me.’
His two friends stopped and looked at him. He realised that he’d spoken the thought aloud.
‘What’ll come to you?’ Gilan asked, but Hal shook his head and dismissed the question.
‘Nothing. Nothing important,’ he said. But he sensed that that wasn’t the truth.
PART THREE
EPHESA
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THEY MADE GOOD time sailing east along the coast, with the wind constantly blowing on their beam – their best point of sailing. Heron cut smoothly through the clear water – green-coloured now that there was a sand bottom barely ten metres below their keel. The system of reefs and shoals stretching north from Tabork into the Constant Sea presented no problem for them, as there was a clear passage close inshore.
The weather was good, the swell was smooth and the wind was abeam. It should have been a pleasant time. With no need for constant tacking and sail handling and with the kilometres rolling steadily beneath the keel, the crew should have been relaxing, enjoying the sun. But a strangely subdued mood had settled over the members of the brotherband. There was little conversation, other than what was necessary for the running of the ship.
Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain Page 21