Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  In his struggles, he hurled himself to one side, his long robe tearing under the strain. His eyes widened in fright as a second dart hissed down into the water, in the spot where he had been a fraction of a second before. Panic now lent him strength and he dragged his clothes free of the underwater obstruction, reaching down to grasp strands of the thornbush and rip them free, cutting his hands in a dozen places, heedless of the pain.

  He lurched backward into shallower water. A third dart just missed him.

  Then he was back on dry land and running as fast as he could, desperate to leave the dreadful entanglement and the wicked darts behind him.

  His hoarse cries of panic carried up the beach to his companions. They had been unaware of the abortive attempt to outflank the defenders until they heard and saw him retreating at top speed, then caught sight of his companion, half submerged, lying on his back a few metres off the beach, in water that was an ominous shade of red.

  It was the last straw. The remaining members of the troop broke and ran, leaving their companions and their riderless horses behind them as they sought the concealment of the oasis.

  For the first time, the defenders let their feelings show. A derisive cheer, led by Ingvar’s massive voice, rang out above the small enclosure.

  ‘That should see them off!’ Stefan shouted exultantly.

  Thorn shook his head. ‘From the way they fought – or rather, the way they didn’t fight,’ he said, ‘they were the second team. There’ll be more of them on the way – and they won’t make the same mistakes next time.’

  Stefan was crestfallen. ‘They’ll be back?’

  Thorn nodded. ‘You can bet on it. We caught them unawares this time. But these desert warriors aren’t the kind to slink away in defeat. They’ll be back.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Lydia asked. She had left her observation point to rejoin them.

  ‘Next time, they’ll be ready for the thornbush barrier under the water,’ Thorn told them. ‘It’s time we fell back to the ship.’

  Jesper looked woebegone. ‘To the ship? You mean we’re going to abandon these defences?’

  ‘I plan to,’ Thorn said. ‘You can stay here if you want to.’

  ‘But I spent all morning digging and cutting and dragging thornbush into place! It hardly seems fair!’ Jesper said indignantly.

  ‘Perhaps you could stay here and explain that to them,’ Thorn remarked. ‘I’m sure they’ll understand.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  THE SHURMEL’S BROWS drew together and his eyes glittered with anger. He took a pace forward, towards Gilan, but the slimly built Ranger held his ground. They were less than a metre apart and the massively built Scorpion leader had to stoop to face the foreigner eye to eye. Quietly, Hal and Stig rose to their feet behind the Ranger.

  ‘Sacrilege!’ the Shurmel roared. Gilan didn’t flinch, although flecks of spittle flew from the Shurmel’s mouth and landed on him. ‘There can be no cancellation of a tolfah! Once it is in place, it continues to the end!’

  ‘Oh come now. You’re paid to put a tolfah in place. Surely I can pay you to remove one? I’m happy to pay extra. Perhaps twice the price of the original tolfah? That sounds reasonable to me.’ Gilan’s voice was calm, in distinct contrast to the Shurmel’s rage. The huge man drew himself up to full height and stepped back, throwing his arms wide.

  ‘You cannot buy the consent of Imrika!’ he shouted. The assembled Scorpions muttered in agreement. ‘Imrika’s permission is not for sale!’

  ‘Well, it certainly was when Iqbal paid her for the contract in the first place,’ Gilan said, and the Shurmel’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the name.

  ‘Iqbal?’ he said. ‘Then we are talking about the tolfah against the western princess – the princess Cassandra?’

  Gilan nodded and comprehension dawned on the Shurmel’s face as pieces in a puzzle fell together. He’d been told these travellers had arrived from the west, not the north. As a result, he’d assumed they were from Arrida. Up until now, he hadn’t connected them to the reports of the ship on the coast to the north.

  ‘Then you are from the foreign ship that is anchored off the Old City?’ he said. It was more of a statement than a question, but again Gilan nodded.

  ‘That’s right.’

  A malevolent smile twisted the grotesquely adorned face. ‘In that case, I regret to tell you that your comrades are no longer alive. I dispatched fifty of my best warriors yesterday to take the ship and burn it.’

  Hal felt the inevitable jolt of fear that strikes any captain who is away from his ship when danger looms. He forced himself to quell the rising panic in his chest, hiding it from the Shurmel.

  ‘Only fifty?’ he said, with forced nonchalance. ‘That might not be enough to get the job done.’ And as he said the words, he realised that they could well be true. Thorn was in command at the coast. And he was ably backed by Lydia and Ingvar, in his new capacity as a master warrior. Thorn was no fool and he would not easily be taken by surprise. At the first sign of trouble, Hal trusted him to simply up anchor and sail away.

  The Shurmel glared at Hal, whose nonchalance and assumed confidence inflamed the big man’s anger.

  ‘Whether your companions live or die, the matter of the tolfah is already settled and we need discuss it no further. I assigned the mission to one of my best assassins some weeks ago. By now your princess is surely dead.’

  Gilan inclined his head and pursed his lips in disagreement. ‘Well, actually, no,’ he said. ‘That follower of yours wasn’t very good at his job. He tried to kill her with one of those nasty little crossbows you people are so fond of.’ He paused, letting doubt flow into the Shurmel’s eyes, then continued. ‘But he missed.’

  ‘Then he will try again!’ the Shurmel spat out at him. ‘And he will keep trying until he succeeds.’

  ‘No-o-o . . .’ Gilan dragged the word out deliberately. He was seeking to anger the Shurmel and goad him into a duel, where the massively built man would believe he could reassert his dominance over them by defeating him. ‘Actually, he’s in a dungeon at Castle Araluen.’

  There were no dungeons at Araluen, of course, but the Shurmel could hardly be expected to know that. ‘Last I saw him,’ Gilan continued, ‘he was crying for his mummy.’

  The Shurmel’s lip began to curl in disbelief.

  ‘My dog chased him and frightened him,’ Hal added. ‘She’s a very big dog.’

  And now doubt began to cloud the Shurmel’s face and eyes. To followers of Imrika, dogs were unclean animals, beasts to be avoided at all costs. An encounter with such an animal would be a terrifying prospect for one of the Scorpion clan. Perhaps what they were saying was the truth.

  ‘Matter of fact,’ Gilan added, ‘your man was the one who told us all about you, and this place.’ He waved an arm around the massive cavern. He didn’t think it was necessary to add that they had been given more detail by Iqbal.

  ‘Then he should have told you that what you propose is a sacrilege. It is an offence to Imrika and it is punishable by death. Your death!’ The Shurmel’s eyes bored into Gilan’s. The Ranger seemed totally unaffected by the threat.

  ‘Oh, come off your high horse,’ he said in a bored tone. ‘Your goddess accepts money to have you kill people. Why not accept more money to have you not kill someone? She wins either way. It seems perfectly logical to me, and there’s a lot less effort involved in not killing someone.’

  ‘That’s because you are a foreigner and an unbeliever. Imrika does not accept money, as you crudely put it. The money is a votive offering. It is incidental to the tolfah.’

  ‘So you say. But I imagine a tolfah wouldn’t last long unless there was some money involved.’ Gilan made a crudely venal gesture, rubbing the fingers and thumb of his right hand together in a universal sign of bribery.

  The Shurmel snorted in disgust. ‘You have no concept of what constitutes a tolfah. It is a sacred contract between me and the goddess. The money we accept is not for
the tolfah itself. It is to cover the expenses of our organisation. Once a tolfah is agreed, the only thing that can negate it is death. The death of the subject of the tolfah.’

  ‘I’ve heard there are two other possibilities,’ Gilan said quietly. ‘The death of the goddess, or your death.’

  A hush fell over the room. The low mutter of voices from the assembled cult members, which had counterpointed the discussion to date, suddenly fell silent. Even the Shurmel was momentarily taken aback.

  ‘You would presume to challenge the goddess herself?’ he said.

  Gilan shrugged and affected to look around the room. ‘That might be a little difficult,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight, does she?’

  The Shurmel took a pace forward, standing close to Gilan, towering over him, seeking to intimidate him with his huge size and threatening presence.

  ‘Then you are challenging me?’ he intoned. His voice had dropped to an ominous, low tone. For a moment, he reflected that leaving these men with their weapons had been a mistake. In the future, he would have to rectify that. But the thought of this man – this puny man – challenging him to combat was almost laughable. He was slim and athletic, but he would be no match for the Shurmel’s massive strength. Even the well-built third member of the group, the one who had said nothing so far, would be no match for the Shurmel. And he was much bigger and far stronger-looking than this strange, cloaked figure before him.

  Again, Gilan showed a sign of reluctance.

  ‘Well, only if I absolutely have to,’ he said. ‘I would much rather negotiate.’

  The Shurmel’s scornful laugh boomed around the rock walls of the cavern.

  ‘I am sure you would!’ he declared. He looked around at his followers. ‘I am sure you would!’

  There was an echoing ripple of laughter from the red-robed figures filling the room. The Shurmel considered for a moment. The foreigner posed no threat to him. The Shurmel had been the victor in a score of single combats. His size and strength and power had always been enough to overwhelm any who dared to face him. And it had been a while now since his followers had witnessed his invincibility in battle and it might well be time to let them see him in action once more. He had become aware lately of whisperings among his followers. One in particular, a scar-faced assassin called Taluf, had been a member of the cult for over fifteen years. He was beginning to gather support among its members and the Shurmel suspected that he was steeling himself to challenge for the position of leadership. Taluf was a skilled killer, as they all were. Of course, he was no warrior – Hal’s earlier observation about the Scorpions’ apparent lack of combat training was an accurate one – but if he gathered enough support, he might be emboldened to try a more devious method.

  It might well be time for the Shurmel to demonstrate to his followers that he was not a man to be taken lightly. He was as skilled as any of them in the subtle arts of poison, of the stealthy attack with a stiletto, or with a small, single-handed crossbow and a venom-tipped bolt. But he had an extra dimension that they were lacking. He was a warrior.

  Or at least, he considered himself to be one. And a demonstration of his combat skills might well set the others to thinking, and erode the growing support for Taluf.

  All this passed through the Shurmel’s mind in a matter of seconds. He smiled at the slim foreigner before him. Perhaps he was a blessing in disguise, he thought. He had provided an opportunity to dispel any thought of rebellion in the minds of Taluf and his wavering followers.

  ‘No negotiation!’ he said now, his voice deep and threatening. ‘Challenge me if you dare, and die for your impudence!’

  He stepped back to the huge wooden throne behind him and leaned his scorpion staff against it. A massive two-handed longsword was secured in a scabbard behind the chair. He slid the long, heavy blade free of its scabbard with a shringing sound of steel on leather. As he did so, the violent movement disturbed the scorpion staff and it fell unnoticed to the floor.

  Gilan unslung his quiver and passed it, with his bow, to Hal.

  ‘Mind this for me, please, Hal,’ he said. He tossed his cloak back off his shoulders so that his arms were unencumbered, then his hand dropped to the hilt of the sword scabbarded on his left hip. It was smaller and shorter than the huge weapon the Shurmel was brandishing. But it had been forged and shaped by the armourers of the Ranger Corps, the men who fashioned the incredibly hard, incredibly sharp saxe knives that all Rangers carried.

  Not that this was apparent in the way it looked. It was a simple, unadorned sword, with its hilt wrapped in practical leather, stained a little by perspiration from its owner’s hand. The crosspiece was a slightly curved piece of brass and a heavy knob of the same metal made up the pommel. The blade of the Shurmel’s sword was nearly half as long again as that of Gilan’s. But whereas the longsword’s blade was simple steel, the blade of the Ranger’s sword provided the only clue to its superior manufacture. It was slightly blued, and the surface of the steel was patterned in faint, wavy lines for its entire length.

  It was a blade that matched the hardness and purity of the katanas wielded by the warriors of Nihon-Ja, or those fashioned by the fabled swordsmiths of the Dimascarene warriors.

  But the Shurmel had no knowledge of either of those groups. He saw before him a small, simple, weak-looking blade in the hands of, by comparison to his own mighty size and muscles, a small, slim and weak-looking man. And he laughed aloud.

  It was a cruel laugh. A laugh that embodied all his sadistic, brutal nature. It was a laugh that showed no sign of doubt as to the outcome of the approaching combat. The Shurmel knew he would win. He would vanquish this impudent foreigner, and expunge his sacrilegious ideas. And he would reinforce his position as leader of the Scorpion cult for years to come. Buoyed by the approbation he would win from the rank and file members, he might even take the opportunity to remove the rebellious Taluf and his immediate followers.

  The more he thought about it, the more the Shurmel realised that this ridiculous foreigner offered him a wonderful opportunity. Truly, he thought, he was a gift from the goddess Imrika. He raised his eyes to heaven and uttered a silent word of thanks for this gift.

  And in doing so, he forgot to consider that Imrika was the goddess of destruction and her greatest gift was, all too often, death.

  He stepped down from the dais to face the puny figure before him.

  ‘To the death!’ he shouted.

  Gilan shrugged, an infuriating gesture under the circumstances.

  ‘If you insist,’ he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  WITHOUT FURTHER WARNING, the Shurmel leapt forward at Gilan, his sword swinging high over his head in a two-handed grip, then sweeping down in a stroke that would have split the smaller man from head to waist.

  Had the smaller man still been in the same position.

  Gilan had been expecting the Shurmel to try a surprise attack. His eyes narrowed as he saw the massive sword sweep up. It was an obvious, and clumsy, move and for a fraction of a second he wondered if it was a feint, a deliberately awkward action designed to give him false confidence. But his expert perusal of the man’s stance and body language immediately negated the thought. It was a genuine attack, and not a very skilful one.

  As the massive blade whistled down, Gilan simply swayed to one side, taking a half pace to remove himself from its path. His movement was barely noticeable, but none the less effective for all that. The sword cleaved the air half a metre from him, striking into the rock floor of the cavern with an echoing clang and sending sparks flying.

  To the Shurmel, intent on delivering the last ounce of his strength and weight into the blow, it seemed that Gilan didn’t move at all. But somehow, the huge, body-cleaving blow missed. He roared in frustration and swung the longsword back horizontally, then sent it whistling through at waist height.

  At what seemed the last moment, Gilan’s sword, propelled by his wrist, swung up and over in a half circle, slashing dow
n onto the longsword, deflecting the immense power of the Shurmel’s strike so that the blade dropped from its intended path and shrieked against the stone floor once again, the teeth-jarring sound accompanied by more sparks.

  To the two Skandians, standing watching the combat, it seemed that Gilan had avoided or deflected the Shurmel’s two overpowering strokes with an absolute minimum of movement or effort.

  ‘He is seriously good at this,’ Stig said softly. Hal nodded, not saying a word, watching intently as the combat resumed.

  Trying to take advantage of the superior reach of his weapon, the Shurmel launched a clumsy lunge at the Ranger, his right foot rising, then stamping down to impart more force to the blow.

  A triumphant cry rose from the throats of the watching Scorpion cult members.

  Only to die away in confusion as Gilan’s sword, again propelled mainly by the iron muscles in his wrist, described a glittering half circle in the air, engaging the Shurmel’s blade with his own and deflecting it clear of his body.

  Meeting no solid resistance, the Shurmel staggered forward, off balance, and felt the razor-sharp point of Gilan’s sword as it flicked up to touch his throat. A small runnel of blood came from the spot where it touched.

  ‘We can stop this any time you like,’ Gilan said calmly. He had the measure of his opponent now. The Shurmel was strong, blindingly strong. And he was fast. But he was clumsy and relatively unskilled in swordsmanship, relying on his power and size to overwhelm an opponent.

  Gilan’s calmness, and the ease with which he had avoided injury so far, became a red rag to a bull. The Shurmel screamed in rage and frustration. With his left hand, he batted Gilan’s sword to one side, then swung the longsword in a diagonal arc at the Ranger.