Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  ‘I see they put on their makeup just for the occasion,’ Stig muttered.

  Hal glanced at him. It wasn’t really a time for levity, he thought. Their lives were balanced on a knife edge here. ‘Shut up, Stig,’ he said quietly.

  Stig shrugged agreeably. ‘Whatever you say. Just trying to lighten the mood.’

  ‘I’ll admit it could use some lightening,’ Gilan remarked. ‘But it might be better to do as Hal says until we learn a little more about what’s in store for us.’

  Stig nodded. His hand touched the head of his axe, hanging in its belt loop. The Scorpions had still made no move to disarm them. Perhaps that was the convention for people who came to make a request of the goddess Imrika. Taking their weapons might be seen as a provocation. After all, people seeking a tolfah were hardly disposed to attack the cult. They were here to ask a favour.

  The low-level murmur of voices had cut off as they entered the room. Now, as their guide led them to a position at the front of the chamber, the voices began again.

  A giant oaken chair stood at the head of the room, on a raised wooden dais. Black drapes hung behind it, sectioning off the part of the chamber that lay behind it. The chair itself was plain, but was surmounted by the ubiquitous scorpion figure, a massive ebony carving nearly a metre high, with red-jewelled eyes. In the flickering torchlight, it appeared to be moving, a malevolent, threatening figure rearing above the back of the chair.

  ‘Stand here,’ their guide told them, indicating a point in front of the platform. They complied. Stig and Hal glanced around the room, wondering what was to happen next. Gilan seemed unperturbed.

  ‘Kormella!’ the guide intoned in a loud voice and there was a rustle of movement behind them. Glancing back, Hal saw that the members of the cult had risen from their seated positions on the mats to kneel, facing the scorpion chair.

  ‘Imella,’ the guide said and, as one, the fifty members of the cult lowered their foreheads to touch the mats in front of them. The guide looked impatiently at the three foreigners, still standing.

  ‘Kneel,’ he hissed and, as they all lowered themselves to their knees, he added, ‘Bow.’

  The two Skandians hesitated. It wasn’t in their nature to prostrate themselves before anyone. But Gilan muttered out of the corner of his mouth:

  ‘Do it.’

  Taking a lead from him, they inclined their heads, and bowed forward slightly from the waist. But by unspoken agreement, none of them assumed the full, forehead-to-the-floor pose of the fifty cult members behind them. The guide scowled at them, but realised this was as far as they were going to go, unless forced.

  And he knew that it wasn’t a good idea to use force on supplicants to the goddess. One never knew how she would view such actions, particularly if a large payment were involved.

  The three friends remained with their heads bowed for some time. Behind them, they could hear the congregation of Scorpions beginning a low, ululating chant. As far as they could tell, it seemed to be wordless, merely a constant repetition of the sound aaaaaaahhhhh.

  Hal also became aware of a sickly sweet fragrance wafting on the air in the cavern. He turned his head slightly, eliciting a warning hiss from the guide. Several of the cult members he could see had their hands to their mouths and their jaws were moving as they chewed something.

  Gilan had apparently noticed the same thing. ‘It’s some kind of drug,’ he said quietly. ‘Possibly a hallucinogenic or a relaxant to prepare them to confront their leader.’

  ‘Is he that ugly?’ Stig asked. A ghost of a smile touched Gilan’s face. He enjoyed Stig’s irreverent approach to solemn occasions.

  ‘Probably,’ he replied. Another warning hiss made them fall silent. More time passed, the chanting became more and more intense, and the volume rose. Finally, the guide stepped forward and swept out his arm, indicating the curtain to the left-hand side of the throne.

  ‘Imshavaaah!’ he cried, and the gathering echoed the cry, so that it rang around the walls of the vast cave.

  Abruptly, the curtain was swept aside and a huge figure sprang through the gap, which instantly closed behind him. Now the cult members resumed their former single-syllable chant, but now it rose to almost deafening proportions, echoing and re-echoing off the stone walls of the vast cave.

  The Shurmel was an impressive figure. Well over two metres tall, he was clad in a black cloak, with a silver rendering of the scorpion figure on his left breast. He was totally bald and his shaven skull had been polished and oiled so that it shone, reflecting the flickering torchlight.

  In his right hand, he held his staff of office. It was a solid rod of ebony, two metres long. At the base, it was shod with a silver ferrule. On the top, it carried a carving of an angry scorpion – carved in shining black stone with red jewels inset for its eyes.

  ‘I can see why they need to be drugged,’ Stig murmured. ‘That is a seriously ugly person.’

  Fortunately, his voice didn’t carry to the leader of the Scorpion cult. But Gilan found his lips twitching as he attempted to control his expression, maintaining an air of suitable solemnity.

  The Shurmel stepped forward to the front of the raised dais. He glared down at the trio of foreigners before him. In the dark circles of his eye sockets, the eyes glittered with malice. He addressed himself to Gilan, who was in the centre.

  ‘Are you the leader?’ he asked. He didn’t seem to be raising his voice, but it carried through the cavern to the farthest corner. It was a rich, deep voice. A sinister voice.

  Gilan rose to his feet and took a half pace forward. ‘I am,’ he declared.

  ‘And you have come here to the shrine of Imrika the Destroyer to discuss a tolfah?’

  Gilan nodded.

  ‘Then look around you at the followers of Imrika. The Assassins of the Scorpion Cult. These are the ones who will pursue your tolfah, until the subject you have named is dead. Look!’ he repeated, sweeping his arm out to encompass the kneeling throng behind them. At his urging, Gilan and the others turned and studied the red-robed assassins, now swaying rhythmically in time to their underlying chant, as the Shurmel continued to talk.

  ‘These are my elite. Each one of them is a skilled killer, trained until he is expert in the use of the stiletto, the crossbow, the javelin and the garotte. Each of them has a comprehensive knowledge of deadly poisons: venom from the sand viper that can be used to coat the tip of an arrow or quarrel. Poisons that can be secreted in a victim’s food and will bring certain death, either long and agonising or immediate.

  ‘These are all implacable killers. Each one trains here for ten years to develop the skill that Imrika demands of her disciples. Only then can a Scorpion recruit expect to be assigned to a target, to carry out a tolfah for the goddess. Once a tolfah is agreed, the Scorpion killer will hunt and pursue his victim until death – either his own or that of the target. Nothing but death can stop them. And when one dies, another will assume his sacred duty until the tolfah is complete.’ He paused dramatically, arms thrown wide open.

  Interesting, Hal thought. He made no mention of any combat skills – no training with the sword or the axe or the spear. These men killed by stealth, not confrontation.

  He caught Gilan’s eye and made a slight shrugging gesture. The Ranger seemed to think some response to the Shurmel’s declaration was expected.

  ‘Fascinating,’ he said evenly.

  The Shurmel glared at him, then continued. ‘So, tell us. Who is the target of your tolfah? Whom do you wish to have killed?’

  The three interlopers, facing to the front once more, sensed a stirring in the kneeling crowd behind them. Hal glanced back quickly. The Scorpions were all leaning forward expectantly, their eyes glowing with anticipation. But Gilan was speaking, his voice conciliatory and apologetic.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to initiate a tolfah. I want to cancel one.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE COMMANDER OF the Ishti, mi
ndful of the Shurmel’s orders not to let the strangers escape, had selected fifteen of his best mounted troopers and sent them ahead as an advance party.

  ‘Observe only,’ he ordered their leader. ‘But if the foreigners try to leave, then do whatever you have to do to stop them.’

  The fifteen troopers had plunged ahead at a gallop, with the rest of the troop following behind at a trot. Perhaps it was the exhilaration of the speed, or the excitement of the hunt, but when they reached the oasis, their leader forgot, or ignored, his orders.

  He carried out a quick reconnaissance, signalling his men to wait back in the concealment of the trees and moving forward on his own.

  He could see the foreign ship anchored close to the shore. A makeshift barricade had been constructed on the edge of the water, looking like brushwood piled up in a semi-circle. The troop leader laughed scornfully. A few flimsy branches wouldn’t stop them, he thought. He was eager to earn the Shurmel’s approval and he knew the Scorpion leader wanted these interlopers killed. No point in waiting for the rest of the party to arrive, he thought. He counted the people behind the barricade and could see there was only a half dozen of them. He had more than twice their numbers, and their makeshift stockade wouldn’t keep him out.

  In his haste, he failed to notice the sharpened bamboo stakes set every couple of metres, pointing outwards around head height. That was understandable. They were set at a low angle and they tended to fade into the dark mass of the thornbush behind them. He also failed to appreciate that the brushwood tangle was set in a ditch more than a metre deep.

  Truth be told, he wasn’t the brightest of leaders. He saw what appeared to be an easy objective. He rose from behind the cover of the tree that had shielded him from view and scrambled into the saddle. Drawing his curved sword, he turned back to his men in the trees behind him and yelled an order for the charge.

  He clapped his spurs into his horse’s side and thundered out of the trees, his blood singing. Behind him, he could hear his men echoing his call, and hear the thud of their horses’ hooves on the coarse sand beneath them.

  He saw people behind the barricade running to get their weapons and take up defensive positions and he laughed out loud. There were too few of them, he thought. His horse would leap their puny barrier and he would be among them, striking to left and right, cutting them down.

  Then his horse saw the wicked hedge of sharpened stakes directly ahead and swung wildly to the right, plunging and rearing to break his rider’s controlling grip on the reins. The commander swayed in the saddle, nearly falling, and cursed the animal as it refused to confront those stakes.

  He realised he could never force his mount into that hedge of sharpened points. He turned in his saddle as the horse pranced, terrified, in a circle.

  ‘Dismount!’ he yelled to the men behind him. ‘Dismount and attack on foot!’

  He had begun to swing down from the saddle when Lydia’s first dart arrived. It went into his upper arm, slightly above the small circular shield that he wore there, and penetrated through to his body. He screamed in pain and staggered, one foot still in the stirrup, one on the ground. His horse, thoroughly terrified by now, bolted, and he lost his balance, bumping and bouncing over the rocky ground as he was dragged behind it, one foot still firmly trapped in the stirrup.

  His men took no notice, and made no attempt to save him. Truth be told, he was an unpopular leader – vain and stupid – and they were glad to see him go. But they were committed to the attack now and they dismounted in a more orderly fashion and swarmed towards the barricade.

  Thorn, behind the thornbush entanglement, watched as the leader of the attack was struck down and disappeared along the beach, dragging behind his panicked animal.

  ‘Good shot, Lydia!’ he said softly to himself. The girl was truly a priceless addition to their crew, he thought. Her skill with the atlatl gave them a long-range striking power that always came as a shock to attackers. Unlike a bow, the weapon was difficult to see and recognise. The first most enemies knew of it was when a dart came hissing down out of the sky and transfixed them.

  But now the Ishti were scrambling close to the barricade and Lydia dared not throw again for fear of hitting one of her comrades. She stood on the mound that had been built for her. A two-metre-high shield of wooden planks gave her cover from any return shots – although none of their attackers seemed to be armed with bows. They carried lances and swords for the most part.

  The attackers were bunched up at the centre of the defensive line. Still, she kept her eyes scanning to either side, waiting to see if any of them tried to break round the end of the barrier where it reached the lapping waves. So far, none had made the attempt. Secure in their superior numbers, and in the apparent frailty of the barricade, they were attempting a frontal attack, looking to overwhelm the small group of defenders behind it.

  The first of them realised his mistake too late. As he tried to force his way through the tangle of brushwood, he felt the ground give way below him and he fell into the metre-deep ditch concealed by the thornbush. Trying to regain his feet, he found his progress halted by the clinging, penetrating thorns that held him prisoner.

  Then, one of the defenders, a grey-haired, dishevelled warrior who appeared to have only one hand, leaned forward and brought a huge, iron-studded war club down on his skull with crushing effect. The attacker’s hoarse war cry was cut short and he fell face down, suspended on the clinging thornbush.

  The man next to him had no better luck. Warned by his companion’s fate, he managed to stop himself falling into the ditch, but the outer layers of thornbush tangled in his leggings, holding him prisoner on the edge of the barrier. He struggled to free his feet, becoming more and more entangled as he did so, and he never saw the long bamboo pole wielded by Wulf as it slammed forward into his chest. He was hurled back, his feet still trapped in the thornbush. He lay groaning on his back.

  The rest of the group pulled back a metre or so, now more aware of the threat offered by the thornbush. They stood, facing the defenders, yelling threats and defiance. The defenders behind the barricade remained silent and watchful. There was nothing to be gained by wasting breath in threats and curses. They had the measure of their attackers. They were confident in their defences and in their ability to hold the line. They needed no false boost to their confidence.

  Their silence, their calm confidence, was unnerving. One of the Ishti studied the thornbush barrier more carefully. Then he leapt forward, slashing with his sword to clear a path through the branches and shouting for his companions to do the same.

  His shouts were cut off as Ingvar’s voulge darted forward like a striking snake. The attacker managed to bring his small shield up in time to block the weapon, but it was a vain attempt. The spearhead of the voulge, with all of Ingvar’s weight and massive strength behind it, slammed through the thin outer layer of brass on the shield, shattering the wooden frame behind it. The Ishti warrior felt as if a galloping horse had slammed into his shield. He was hurled back several paces.

  ‘Darn it!’ snarled Ingvar, as the man sprawled on the beach. ‘I didn’t have time to hook him.’

  ‘Next time don’t hit him so hard,’ Thorn told him. Truth be told, he was a little overwhelmed by the change in Ingvar. He had always been a pillar of strength for the Herons. But now he was a roaring, rampaging one-man battle squad. His lunge had carried so much power behind it that the attacker was already flying back through the air when Ingvar tried for the follow-up hooking motion.

  ‘I’ve created a monster,’ Thorn muttered. Then he grinned. ‘But thank the gods he’s our monster.’

  Ingvar brandished the voulge at the attackers as they hesitated, just out of range. None of them were eager to face it. They had seen their companion come flying back through the air like a bale of hay from a pitchfork.

  Once more, they withdrew a few paces, making sure they were well out of the reach of that vicious axe-headed spear wielded by the huge warrior behind the b
arricade. None of them was willing to take command. None of them seemed to have any idea how to break through to the interior. They milled together uncertainly, each of them waiting for someone else to take the lead, someone else to have an idea, watched all the time by the grim-faced Herons.

  Then Lydia’s voice rose clearly above the small battlefield.

  ‘They’re trying for the end!’ she shouted.

  From her elevated position, she had seen two of the Ishti break furtively away from their companions. Staying low so that the thornbush barricade might conceal their movements, they were sprinting for the western end of the barricade, where it reached the sea.

  Thorn was about to order Wulf to come with him and block their path when he had a better idea. Let them all have another unpleasant surprise, he thought. That might be enough to break the back of this disastrous attack.

  ‘Let them get caught up,’ he replied to Lydia, although he made sure he didn’t call attention to her by turning towards her. ‘Then take care of them.’

  She nodded, licking her lips, which were dry with tension. It was unnerving to watch her companions do all the work in a fight like this, she thought. She was itching to play a part in the struggle at the barricade, but the enemy were too close for her to cast safely. Now she watched through slitted eyes as the two crouching figures reached what they thought was the end of the barricade and splashed into the water. They hesitated as they realised they were waist deep within a few metres, then hesitated again as the spiky, clinging masses of thornbush beneath the surface caught and held them, leaving them struggling against the water and the thorns, which penetrated their clothes in a score of places, tearing, ripping, then holding them fast, leaving them unable to progress any further.

  One of them turned to the other, gesturing down into the water beneath them.

  ‘Use your sword!’ he shouted desperately. ‘Cut a way through this cursed –’

  He got no further as Lydia’s first dart plunged down on a shallow angle. It cut cleanly through the mail shirt he wore under his outer robe and he fell backwards under the force of the missile. The water around him was already beginning to stain red. His companion, horrified and panicking, struggled frantically to extricate himself.