Scorpion Mountain (19 page)

chapter
Thirty

T
he orderlies stood uncertainly, not sure whether to obey the Tualaghi's command. But Hal, recognizing his name, moved toward 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
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 Araluen 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 antagonize 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, recognized 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 realized 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 honor a compact with a dead man?”

And at that, Iqbal laughed. It was a genuine reaction, although it was full of derision rather than humor. 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 realized 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.”

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 realized 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, son of Ha'rish, 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 woolen 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 kilometers inland, to the southeast.”

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 colonized 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 traveling 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 recognized. 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

H
al 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 civilized man than that.

The roof of the tent bellied upward under a sudden increase in the wind. The wind was a constant here, he realized. 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, reestablishing 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 Araluens 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 upward, turning his face to the south so that the steady breeze 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 realized 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.