Scorpion Mountain (25 page)

chapter
forty

T
horn paced along the crescent-shaped thornbush barrier, frowning as he reached the western end, where the ditch and thornbush tangle reached the water's edge. He had chosen the spot for their camp carefully, picking a site where the shore dropped off steeply into the water. But still he felt there was a problem.

“Jesper!” he called sharply. The former thief, who had been relaxing on a flat rock, warmed by the morning sun, sighed deeply and rose to his feet.

“Coming, Thorn,” he called, adding in a mumbled undertone, “Why is it always me?”

“Because you're the one who annoys me the most,” Thorn told him briskly. Then he indicated the spot where the ditch and barricade reached the water's edge. “I want you to extend the thornbush tangle into the water,” he said. “It'd be too easy for an attacker to simply go round the end and attack us from the rear.”

Jesper frowned. “It'll just float away,” he said. He was always ready with a reason not to do extra work.

Thorn looked at him patiently. “That's why I want you to weigh it down with rocks.”

Jesper's frown was replaced by a pained look. “You mean I have to cut more thornbush, and drag it all the way down here and then carry a bunch of rocks as well?” he said plaintively. “That'll take an hour.”

“Two hours,” Thorn told him cheerfully. “I want you to do the same at the other end.”

Jesper's shoulders slumped. “Why do I always have to do these things?”

Thorn seemed to relent. “You're right. Stefan!” he called, turning to where the mimic was watching with a smug look on his face. “You can give him a hand.”

The smug look vanished. “Me? Why me?”

“Well,” Thorn told him, with a deceptively pleasant expression on his face, “you're a talented mimic. You can impersonate Stig, Hal, me and Gilan and it will feel as if you have lots of people to help you. Many hands make light work, you know. Let's see if many voices do the same.”

“I doubt it,” Stefan said sourly.

“So do I,” Thorn replied. He gestured to the water's edge. “Take it out until you're chest deep.”

“Do you think that'll really stop a determined attack?” Lydia said from behind him. She was always interested to see Thorn's preparations for combat and this was a good opportunity to learn about defensive tactics.

He shook his head. “It'll do to stop the first attack.”

She smiled. “Assuming somebody does attack us.”

“Always assume someone will,” he told her and she nodded. It made sense to expect the worst in potentially hostile territory. “I should think the first thing an attacker will do, after they've tried a frontal attack, will be to go round the end and hit us from the rear. They'll get tangled up in the thornbush, in chest-deep water. That'll make them an easy target for you. You'll be able to thin out their numbers.”

She looked thoughtfully at the spot where Jesper and Stefan would be adding the extra entanglements of thornbush. In her mind's eye, she could see a group of hostile nomads, waist or chest deep in the water, already hampered by their long, flowing robes, and floundering in the almost impenetrable tangle of thorns and branches.

“They'll be sitting ducks,” she said. She looked at Thorn with some admiration. He had an ability to envision what would happen in a battle. She guessed that came from long experience and she knew they were lucky to have him as their battle master. “You always think one step ahead, don't you?”

Thorn smiled at her. His expression was friendly, not the usual sly one he assumed when he was teasing her.

“I try to. It's something you should try to develop yourself. You'd be a good battle leader. Mind you,” he said, a grin touching his face, “all too often, the enemy decides on a different step, and that can be embarrassing.”

Lydia said nothing for a few minutes. She was a little taken aback by his statement that she'd make a good battle leader. Thorn was always surprising her, catching her off guard. Most of the time, he teased her and made jokes about her, then he'd suddenly come out with a compliment like that. She recalled Hal telling her that Thorn respected her and admired her fighting and hunting ability. The teasing was something he did to everyone he liked—it was actually a mark of affection. It was just that she always rose to it before she could stop herself.

Thorn had moved on, and was beckoning to Edvin.

“I want you and Wulf to bring the ship closer in to shore,” he said. He turned back to where Lydia was still watching him, a bemused expression on her face. “The entanglements will only work once,” he said. “We may need to fall back to the ship.”

She looked around the camp. Jesper and Stefan were already at work farther up the beach, cutting great bunches of thornbush from a large, sprawling clump. Ingvar, unbidden, was carrying heavy rocks down to the water's edge for them to weigh down the underwater entanglement. It was typical of the big boy, she thought. He was always ready to pitch in and help. Edvin was launching the skiff, taking a mooring line out to the
Heron,
where she floated at anchor some thirty meters offshore. It seemed everyone had a task—except her.

“Can I do anything?” she asked Thorn.

He swept his gaze round the beach, taking in the distant oasis and the cluster of buildings in the deserted town.

“Keep a lookout,” he said. “We've been here a couple of days. That's plenty of time for someone to organize an attack.”

She nodded. Fetching her quiver of atlatl darts, she slung them over her shoulder and walked to the edge of the thornbush breastwork. Kloof, hearing her boots crunching on the coarse sand and fine pebbles of the beach, roused herself from where she was curled up snoozing in the sun and, stretching luxuriously, joined her. The spiny, tough branches were reinforced every meter or so with sharpened bamboo stakes driven into the ground and facing out at an angle. Lydia passed through the entry and found a rock where she had an elevated view of the surrounding area. She began scanning left to right, then back again, letting her eyes wander over the deserted buildings of Ephesa, then the thick groves of trees in the oasis, then back again.

In most people, such a repetitive, unproductive action would have quickly led to drowsiness and inattention. But Lydia was a skilled hunter and she was used to keeping watch for elusive prey—for hours at a time if necessary. Behind her, she could hear the muted voices of the rest of the crew as they went about their tasks. Kloof sat beside her on the rock, the dog's head nearly at the same level as her own.

Idly, Lydia let her hand rest on the huge dog's thick ruff and scratched behind Kloof's ears. Kloof inclined her head in pleasure, yawned hugely, then turned to lick Lydia's hand.

“Get out of it,” the girl said good-naturedly. She wiped her hand dry on the front of her jerkin. Kloof allowed her front legs to slide out from under her and sank to the ground with a contented
whuff!
of exhaled breath.

“Keep your eyes open,” Lydia said quietly. The dog's ears pricked up at the sound of her voice. It was odd, Lydia thought, how she sensed the reason for their current activity. Normally, Kloof would take any and every opportunity to snooze. But now she was alert, her head turning from side to side, her nose raised and sniffing the wind.

I guess she's taking her cue from me, Lydia thought. She was alert and on watch, and the dog could sense her level of attention and was able to match it.

“If anyone comes, you'll probably sniff them out long before I do,” she said. Kloof continued to scan the surrounding countryside, her nose twitching.

Lydia craned round to see how work was progressing in the camp. Wulf was knee deep in the water, hauling on the hawser that Edvin had carried out to the ship. At the same time, Edvin, on board the little ship, was paying out a stern line attached to the buoy that marked the offshore anchor.

The
Heron
was now only a few meters offshore, in the deep water at the edge of the drop-off.

“That's close enough,” Thorn called. She noticed that he'd taken pity on Jesper and Stefan and was helping Ingvar place heavy rocks to hold the underwater entanglement in place.

At the water's edge, Stefan surveyed the thick underwater tangle of branches and spikes, stretching out four or five meters into the water. It was a substantial obstruction, he thought. Then another thought occurred to him. He looked up to where Thorn was placing another rock.

“What happens when the tide goes out?” he called. If it went out far enough, there would be another section of exposed beach at the end of their carefully built obstacle. The old sea wolf looked up at him.

“D'you know why they call this the Constant Sea?” he asked. When Stefan returned a blank look, Thorn jerked a thumb at Wulf. “You tell him, Wulf,” he said.

Wulf looked equally blank, shrugging his shoulders.

Thorn rolled his eyes to heaven. “Did they teach you nothing in brotherband training?” he said in disgust.

Stefan thought it best to treat that as a rhetorical question. There was no answer he could give that didn't open him to further sarcasm.

When Thorn saw that that particular ploy wasn't going to work, he looked a little disappointed. He drew a long breath, then said, in very precise tones, “It's called the Constant Sea because it's unchanging. There are no tides here.”

Stefan raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”

“Really,” Thorn replied.

Stefan tilted his head to one side as he considered that interesting fact. “Why's that?” he asked.

Thorn hesitated. It was all very well to make scathing comments about the boys' lack of knowledge. But now Stefan had asked a question to which Thorn had no answer.

“Do you expect me to tell you everything?” he asked now, and a knowing look came over Stefan's face.

“You don't know, do you?”

Thorn snorted. “Of course I do. But it's not my job to further your education, scant as it may be.” He gestured toward the far end of the barricade. “Get that end started,” he said shortly. When he heard Stefan's knowing snigger, he made a mental note to be dissatisfied with his work on the eastern end, and have him do twice as much there.

Wearily, calling to Jesper to join him, Stefan trudged out of the sea, water dripping from his clothes, and made his way to the prepared pile of thornbush at the far end of the campsite. Ingvar was already lugging rocks down to the water's edge and piling them there.

It took another hour for the work to be completed to Thorn's satisfaction. Contrary to his plan, he didn't insist on an extra effort from Stefan. The boys had worked well, if not willingly. In fact, after a decent interval, he joined in the work of piling the thornbush under the water's surface and weighing it down with rocks.

Lydia smiled as she saw him join in on the labor. “You're not as grumpy as you pretend, are you?” she said to herself. Beside her, Kloof rumbled a deep growl in reply. At least, that was what she thought the dog was doing and she tugged idly at the thick hair of her ruff. Then another growl resonated through Kloof's massive chest and Lydia took more notice. The dog was leaning forward, her attention riveted on the oasis. Following her line of sight, Lydia could see movement as a troop of mounted warriors picked their way through the trees.

“Thorn!” she called. “I think the guests you've been expecting have arrived.”

chapter
forty-one

H
al had no idea how long they were kept waiting. Without any daylight visible to them, he couldn't judge the passage of time. For a while, he tried to relax like his two companions, but his impatience got the better of him and he began to pace up and down the chamber. The long wait didn't seem to bother Stig, who had the experienced sailors' ability to sleep anytime, anyplace the opportunity presented itself.

As far as Stig was concerned, the Shurmel would send for them eventually and there was no point in fretting about the fact. Better to snatch forty winks while he could.

Or eighty, if that's what it took.

Gilan seemed equally philosophical about the long wait. He sat with his back against the wall and his head tilted forward. His eyes were closed but Hal doubted that he was sleeping. That was borne out when there was a rattle at the door lock and the Ranger's eyes were wide-open immediately as his head snapped up.

The cult member who had conducted them to the chamber entered and looked around the dimly lit space, studying the three of them disdainfully. Stig, woken by the rattle of the lock and the squeaking of the door hinges, responded by yawning hugely at the scarlet-robed man.

Gilan rose gracefully from his sitting position against the wall. He did so without any need to set his hands on the floor. He simply unfolded his legs underneath him and came to his feet. Stig also stood, with a little less grace. He ran his hand through his hair and sniffed loudly. Hal, of course, was already on his feet.

“So,” Stig said cheerfully, “I take it the Head Sherang is ready to see us?”

The cultist looked at him, not understanding. Stig decided to elaborate.

“The Big Bazoo,” he said. “The Super Scorpion. The Sherbet.”

The cultist glared at him. “The brothers are assembled,” he said. “The Shurmel will hear your petition now.”

“That's what I meant,” Stig said, grinning.

The Scorpion member ignored him. He addressed himself to Gilan.

“All requests for a
tolfah
are heard in front of the full membership,” he said.

Gilan shrugged. “That sounds reasonable,” he replied and gestured for the cult member to lead the way.

They followed him out the door and along the low-ceilinged stone passageway by which they had come. When they reached the point where they had entered the cave complex, Hal managed to glance outside. From the length of the shadows cast by the sun, he deduced that it was early to mid-afternoon. They had been kept waiting for at least three hours. He wondered whether that was really how long it took to assemble the members of the cult or whether it was simply a matter of letting outsiders cool their heels at the Shurmel's pleasure. Probably the latter, he thought.

Their path veered away from the large opening in the mountainside, back along another passage cut through the rock. Lanterns set every ten meters or so cast a flickering, uncertain light on the corridor. The ground was rough and uneven and Hal stumbled several times. So, apparently, did Stig.

“Bit more light would be useful,” he grumbled. Nobody said anything in reply.

Abruptly, their guide made a sharp turn to the right and they found themselves on a winding, ascending ramp leading up into the heart of the mountain. They passed passageways at two levels before they reached a third and followed their guide out onto yet another of the tunnels cut through the rock.

But now they could hear a noise above the soft patter of their feet on the floor. There was the subdued mutter of a large number of voices. The sound echoed off the rock walls of the narrow, winding corridor, becoming louder the farther they went.

Eventually, they rounded a corner and were confronted by a large, high-ceilinged cave, lit by dozens of torches set in brackets round the walls. The mutter of voices rose suddenly as they entered, then died away, and dozens of pairs of eyes turned toward them. Seated on individual rugs set on the floor were the members of the Scorpion cult. There appeared to be around fifty of them, all of them wearing the same scarlet robes as their guide, all of them clean shaven, all with dark circles of kohl around their eyes, giving them an ominous, deathlike appearance.

“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 ax, 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 favor.

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 meter high, with red-jeweled 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 realized 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 was 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 this time it rose to almost deafening proportions, echoing and reechoing off the stone walls of the vast cave.

The Shurmel was an impressive figure. Well over two meters 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 meters 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 standing in the center.

“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 garrote. 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 agonizing 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 ax 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.”