Scorpion Mountain (24 page)

chapter
thirty-eight

I
n a cave high inside Scorpion Mountain, the Shurmel gazed out over the brown, shimmering land surrounding the triple-peaked mass of rock.

The room was one of hundreds of caves and tunnels that honeycombed the mountain, providing accommodation, meeting rooms and worship areas for the Cult of the Scorpion, followers of the goddess Imrika. This particular cave comprised the Shurmel's personal suite of rooms. It was a huge, sprawling area, befitting his status as the leader of the cult and the High Priest of Imrika. A wide rift in the side of the mountain provided the view of the desert, letting him keep track of the comings and goings of his men—and other visitors to the Scorpions' lair.

Less than ten minutes ago, he had seen a rider approaching, spurring his weary horse across the last few hundred meters to the base of the mountain, where a large gallery provided access to the cave complex inside. Any moment now, the man should be reporting to him. The Shurmel had no idea what he might be going to report. But the rider's obvious haste, and the distressed state of his horse, hinted that it might be important news.

As he had the thought, there was a tentative knock at the door set into the stone walls of the cave. The Shurmel turned away from the rift in the side of the mountain and faced the door.

“Come in,” he called softly.

His voice was deep and almost sepulchral. It fitted his physical appearance. He was a massively tall man, well over two meters in height and broad in the shoulder and body. His skin, unlike the swarthy, coffee-colored complexions of most of his followers, was pale and white. His head was clean-shaven and oiled and his face was adorned with markings of kohl, a black makeup compound often used by dancers and entertainers.

But there was nothing festive or entertaining about the markings the Shurmel had chosen. His eyes were surrounded by dark circles, giving them the appearance of the empty eye sockets of a skull. And his face was made up to accentuate the skull-like appearance as well, highlighting the cheekbones and deep-sunken cheeks.

He was dressed in a long, flowing black robe, with silver thread that depicted a scorpion in fighting pose, pincers raised to grip an opponent, sting poised to kill it.

In his left hand, he carried his staff of office—a two-meter ebony rod with a silver ferrule at the bottom, surmounted by a carved black scorpion in the same posture as the one on his robe, with eyes made from rubies.

The door opened and admitted a nervous desert nomad. He was dressed in a white tunic, marked by dirt and dust, and a dark green over-robe. His
kheffiyeh
was patterned in black and green checks. As he entered and stood before his lord, he hastily removed it, twisting it nervously in his hands.

The Shurmel, well aware of the man's nervousness, allowed the silence between them to stretch to an almost unbearable point. His dark brown eyes bored into the desert dweller, whom he recognized as a member of one of his vassal tribes. He called these tribes the
Ishti.
Literally, it meant slaves, although technically they had their freedom and the term was used more in contempt than in any accurate description of their roles. The Scorpion cult had long ago suborned the leaders of several local tribes, forcing them to provide soldiers and scouts for the Shurmel. His own trained assassins were too valuable and skilled for such lowly work. The
Ishti
kept watch over the surrounding lands for any sign of attack against the Scorpion cult. In such a case, they would fight the interlopers while the cult members silently melted away into the mountains, to any one of half a dozen different hideouts like the one the Shurmel was currently in.

He decided the man had spent long enough quaking before him. Naturally, no member of the
Ishti
would open a conversation with the Shurmel.

“You have news for me,” he intoned in that same flat, resonating voice. It was not a question. If the man didn't have news for him, he had no business being here.

The scout stopped twisting his
kheffiyeh
for a moment and stammered a reply. “Lord Shurmel, there is a ship . . .”

The Shurmel raised one eyebrow and turned to look out the large opening at the desert below.

“Here?” he said, the sarcasm obvious in his voice. “Remarkable.”

“No, no, lord,” the
Ishti
hurried to reply. “Pardon my stupidity. The ship is at the coast, by the old city of the invaders.”

Ephesa, the Shurmel thought. A slight frown touched his features but he dismissed it almost instantly. It didn't do for the Shurmel to show any sign of uncertainty or doubt. But inwardly, he wondered what a ship was doing at Ephesa. There was nothing of interest there. Anything of value had long ago been looted from the ruins by the Tualaghi or other nomad tribes.

There was, of course, the oasis. Perhaps the ship had landed to replenish its water supplies. That was possible, he thought. But it was second nature to him to suspect any new arrival or unusual event in the immediate vicinity of Scorpion Mountain.

“And what is this ship doing? Where is it from?”

The scout shrugged, a fearful expression crossing his face. He had left the coast as soon as the
Heron
had been sighted. He had no information other than the fact that she was there.

“Its crew came ashore, lord. I'm not sure where they're from. The ship is similar to those used by the pale northerners. I left two of my comrades there to continue to observe and came immediately to inform you of its arrival.”

“And little else, unfortunately,” the Shurmel said in a sour tone. “How big is this ship?”

Occasionally, Skandian wolfships had penetrated this far east. Some had gone even farther. If this was a wolfship, he would need to take notice. The pale northerners were savage fighters—although they rarely came as far inland as the mountains.

The scout wet his lips. He wasn't sure whether the ship would be classed as big or small. “There are perhaps a dozen in the crew,” he said finally.

The Shurmel turned away and paced for several seconds, thinking. Normally, a northern ship could carry forty or fifty men. Obviously, this one wasn't a raider. But he didn't like strangers in his territory—or even near it.

“It's small then,” he said to himself and the
Ishti
eagerly agreed, now that the size was established.

“Yes, lord. It's a small ship.”

The Shurmel regarded him, his lip curled scornfully. “I don't need you to repeat my thoughts.”

The
Ishti
bowed his head. “Pardon, my lord. I merely . . .” He was going to amplify the apology but, faced by the Shurmel's withering stare, realized in time that the Shurmel did not tolerate babblers. He let his voice tail away to silence. Eventually, the Shurmel looked away. He thought for a few minutes, then called to the guard outside his door.

“Fattah!”

The door opened to admit the sentry. “Yes, lord?”

“Notify the head of the guards that there is a foreign ship at the old city. He is to take . . .” He paused, thinking. The scout had estimated the crew's numbers as a dozen or less. “. . . a company of fifty men and destroy it.”

“And the crew, my lord?”

“Destroy them also.” The Shurmel had no idea what this foreign ship was up to. If they were, in fact, replenishing their water supplies, they would be gone by the time his men reached the coast. If they were still there, they were probably up to no good and should be disposed of.

“As you order, lord.” The sentry saluted and left the room.

The Shurmel stood silently for some time. Eventually, he turned back to the nervous scout, who was still turning his headdress round and round in his hands.

“You're still here,” he said.

The man nodded several times. “Yes, lord.”

Again, that eyebrow was raised in an expression of surprise and disdain. “Why?”

The
Ishti
gulped and began to back toward the door. “Your pardon, lord. I'll go now. Imrika preserve you.”

The Shurmel waved one languid hand at the man, shooing him out of the room. “I'm sure she will,” he said. He resumed his position at the window, staring out over the desert, looking to the north as if he might see this ship. Behind him, the door closed quietly.

• • • • •

Zafir al Aban stirred as the morning sun finally traveled high enough to light his face. He turned his face away from the brightness and heat, muttering fitfully. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked around.

He was lying flat on his back on the rough desert ground. His body ached in several places and his head throbbed painfully. There was a sore point at the back of his skull and he touched it gingerly, his fingers coming away wet with blood. He tried to sit up and failed, the effort merely causing him pain in his body and head. Carefully, making sure not to move too quickly, he rolled onto his side, then his stomach, and brought his knees up under him. He rose shakily to his feet, reeling a little and staring around himself through red-rimmed eyes, trying to reconstruct the events of the night before.

A few meters away lay the body of his horse, an inert mass that showed no sign of life. Already, scavenger birds were hopping around it, and one, bolder than the rest, was perched on the horse's side. As Zafir watched, it tore a strip of flesh away from the body. Zafir lurched awkwardly toward it and waved a hand to drive it away. The effort nearly sent him tumbling back to the ground. His knee was stiff and painful and there was a torn muscle in his thigh.

He stopped, wiping a hand over his face, feeling the clammy sweat there, and tried to remember what had happened.

The strange ship had landed near the old city. That much he remembered. He had been on patrol there with two companions and they discussed what they should do. Eventually, they decided to send one of their number back to the Shurmel, to alert him of the arrival of the ship. The remaining two would keep watch over the newcomers.

Now it came back to him. Three of the foreigners had left the city in a strange vehicle—a three-wheeled structure with a sail—that moved as fast as a galloping horse. They were headed southeast, toward the Amrashin Massif. Obviously, they were looking for Scorpion Mountain. Zafir had set out after them, hoping to outdistance them and warn the Shurmel of their approach. As night fell, he had a small lead over them. He elected to continue riding through the night, and that had been his downfall—literally as well as figuratively.

He had failed to see a hole in the ground—an animal's burrow, perhaps—and his horse had put one foot in it and somersaulted, throwing him over its neck to land on the rocky ground with a crash. He remembered hearing the sharp report of the animal's cannon bone fracturing. Then he hit the ground and everything went black.

Obviously, the horse hadn't survived the fall. Zafir had only done so because he had been thrown clear. He looked up into the glaring blue sky overhead. Already, more and more kites and buzzards were circling, ready to alight on the new source of fresh meat that lay on the desert below them.

Zafir limped the short distance to the horse. Thankfully, his water canteen was on the upper side, as was his scabbarded sword. He untied them both, slung the canteen over his shoulder and stood to contemplate his next course of action.

Originally, he had planned to warn the Shurmel of the approach of the three foreigners in the strange wind-driven vehicle. But now, without a horse, he realized he would arrive several hours after them. He would merely be confirming bad news, never a good thing to do with the Shurmel.

Shrugging, he came to a decision. There was a small tribe of nomads who frequented the desert some twenty kilometers to the west. He would join them and beg for their hospitality.

Anything to avoid the vengeance of the High Priest of Imrika.

chapter
thirty-nine

H
al brought the land sailer up into the wind and released the tension on the sheet.

The sail flapped back and forth as the force of the wind was released and the three-wheeled vehicle slowly trundled to a halt. The three companions sat silently for a few seconds, staring in fascination at the massive, triple-peaked mountain ahead of them.

It was part of the huge range of towering mountains that stretched across the horizon. But it was separated from the rest of the mountains, standing a little apart from the central spine of the range.

“That has to be the place,” Gilan said eventually.

Hal nodded. “It certainly looks like a scorpion.” He squinted his eyes and studied the three peaks.

The center peak was taller than the others, which were roughly the same height. All of them rose to pointed summits, and when viewed through half-closed eyes, an observer could make out the delineation of an angry scorpion. The two side peaks formed the raised pincers and the central peak took on the shape of the sting, poised high to pierce its prey. The mountain itself was black rock, which heightened the impression. There was a sense of foreboding about the place, a sense of evil, Then he shook his head and dismissed the fanciful notion. I'm reacting to the sinister name, that's all, he thought. If this were called Buttercup Mountain, I wouldn't have the same feeling.

His head agreed. His heart and his imagination thought otherwise.

Stig obviously agreed with the latter sentiment. “I don't like the look of this place,” he said. “There's a bad feeling about it. The sooner we're done and out of here, the better I'll feel.”

Hal glanced sideways at him. “A bad feeling?”

Stig nodded emphatically, his lips set in a tight line. “Some places just feel evil.”

“It's just a pile of rock,” Hal said, trying to convince himself as much as anyone. He was surprised when Gilan tended to concur with Stig.

“It's not the place itself,” he said. “It's what goes on here. A cult like the Scorpions creates an evil atmosphere around it. And of course, it's not helped by the sinister look of the place.”

Hal wiped dust from his face with the tail of his
kheffiyeh.
He rewound the ends to cover his face once more, then took hold of the main sheet and steering lines.

“Well, if we sit here much longer talking about it, we'll scare ourselves out of the whole idea,” he said. “Let's go and meet this Shurmel person.”

Stig stepped down from his seat and pushed against the outrigger he was riding on, swinging the land sailer so that the wind caught the sail, sending it bellying out. As Hal hauled in on the sheet, Stig, at ease now with the sailer's movement, stepped lightly back aboard and they began to trundle across the rough ground, gathering speed as they went. Once more, the familiar rooster tail of brown dust rose into the air behind it as Hal steered toward the black mountain that reared its three heads into the air ahead of them.

There was a flat, open area at the base of the central peak, rather like a military parade ground. They could see huts and tents set up around its perimeter. Dozens of dark holes pierced the side of the mountain, marking the entrance to caves. As their approach was noticed, men began to stream out of the tents, and from a large cave opening in the base of the mountain.

Hal eased the sheet, reducing the sailer's speed as they grew closer. He estimated there were about thirty men gathered in the open space between the tents and the large cave. Most of them were dressed in the traditional robes and headdresses of the desert tribes. But he could make out half a dozen who were bare headed, and wearing bloodred robes.

As they rolled up to the silent, staring group, Hal released the sheet and let the land sailer come to a halt once more. They had approached the mountain from due west, as a result of the long tack they had taken on the last leg of their journey.

For some seconds, there was an impasse. The nomads among the group were staring, openmouthed, at the remarkable craft that had just come sailing out of the desert.

The red-robed group all looked suspicious and unwelcoming. Not only were they bareheaded, Hal saw now, they were all shaven headed as well. And the red robes bore a black insignia—a scorpion in the now-familiar attack stance.

One of this group stepped forward, stopping ten meters away from them.

He said something in a foreign tongue. His voice was harsh and unfriendly. He addressed Hal, who spread his hands in a gesture of non-understanding.

The Scorpion spoke again, this time in the common tongue, but with a thick accent. “Who are you? Why have you come here?”

Hal pointed to Gilan, indicating that he was the one who would do the talking. The tall Ranger stepped down stiffly from his seat and raised his hand in greeting.

“
Saloom,
” he said pleasantly. The word meant “peace” in the Arridan tongue and was the traditional way of greeting a stranger.

The Scorpion, however, waved the friendly overture aside with an angry gesture. “Never mind that! Why are you here? Who are you? Strangers are not welcome here!”

Gilan raised a questioning eyebrow. “Not even a stranger who wants to discuss a
tolfah
with the Shurmel?” he said mildly.

The Scorpion hesitated. He glanced around at his fellow cult members, not sure how to proceed. The stranger might be foreign, but he knew the name of their leader. And he knew about
tolfahs.
If he ordered him driven off or killed, the Shurmel might not be pleased. Such an action might even be taken as a blasphemy against Imrika.

He saw similar levels of uncertainty on the faces of the other Scorpions. The
Ishti,
of course, had no opinion on the matter. Most of them were still gawping at the land sailer.

Plus there was something else that made him hesitate. The number three was significant, verging on sacred, to the Scorpion cult. The symbol of their god was a scorpion—the two pincers and the tail forming a triple set of points. And now these three men arrived out of the desert with no warning, in a seemingly miraculous vehicle with three wheels.

So far, the members of the cult had heard nothing about the arrival of the foreign ship at Ephesa. That information was known only to the Shurmel himself. All they knew was that three men—obviously foreigners—had materialized out of nowhere in a three-wheeled conveyance that moved without benefit of horses or camels or other draft animals.

Antagonizing such men was not something that a rank and file member of the cult was willing to take a chance on.

And of course, there was the matter of the
tolfah.
The goddess Imrika loved
tolfahs.
They were bread and butter, meat and drink to her insatiable soul. They meant blood and death. Turning away, or harming, a supplicant who was willing to pay for a
tolfah
might well anger Imrika—and that was something no wise man did.

On top of that, the system of
tolfahs
was the reason for being of the Scorpion cult members themselves. They were highly trained assassins and they carried out the killing that a
tolfah
entailed. Without
tolfahs,
they had no purpose.

Of course, once the
tolfah
was in place, they could get rid of the foreigners with impunity. Then, it would be a compact between the Shurmel and the goddess. The men who had invoked the
tolfah
would no longer be of any significance.

“Let the Shurmel be the judge of this,” one of his brother Scorpions said in a low voice.

The Scorpion who had spoken to them came to his own decision. “You may enter,” he said, indicating the large fissure in the rock face behind him that marked the entrance to the cave complex.

Hal and Stig quickly lowered and furled the sail, lashing it in place. Hal unstrapped a water skin and a sack containing their food from the central strut of the land sailer. The Scorpion who had spoken to them frowned as he watched. Hal indicated the water skin and the haversack.

“We'll bring our own provisions,” he said. “We wouldn't want to impose upon your hospitality.” It was noticeable, he thought, that the Scorpions made no move to relieve them of their weapons. Then again, they were surrounded by dozens of warriors and the Scorpions themselves. Three men would hardly be expected to compete against odds like those.

“Follow me,” said the red-robed man and led the way into the large opening at the base of the cliff.

It was cool inside, compared with the savage heat of the desert sun. There was a constant cool breeze blowing, emanating from the honeycomb of tunnels and caves that had been dug out of the mountain over the centuries.

He led them to a chamber on the ground level of the mountain and ushered them inside. It was quite large, lit by burning oil lamps set in brackets along the rough stone walls. There was a table to one side. Half a dozen tattered and grubby cushions were scattered on the rock floor around it. Aside from that, the room was unfurnished. There was no window, no way in or out other than the door by which they had just entered.

“Just as well we brought a snack,” Stig said cheerfully.

The Scorpion scowled at him. Good humor seemed to have no place here. “Wait here,” he said. “You will be summoned when the brothers are assembled.”

“Thank you,” said Gilan.

The Scorpion grunted at him and left the room, closing the door behind him. They heard the rattle of a bolt being thrown on the outside.

“Well, here we are,” said Hal.

Stig grinned at him. “And here we stay, apparently, until
the brothers are assembled.
” He managed a passable impersonation of the Scorpion's ominous, flat tones. “Wonder what he meant by that?”

Gilan shoved a cushion against the wall of the chamber with his foot and sat down on it, leaning his back against the rock wall.

“It sounds as if we have to plead our case to the entire cult,” he said. “The one good thing about all this is that I'm not having the teeth rattled out of my head by that contraption of yours, Hal.”

Hal grinned. “I can see it's made a big impression on you.”

“It's made a deep impression—on my backside,” Gilan said, shifting his behind on the cushion to a more comfortable position.

“So what do we do now?” Stig said. He was prowling around the room, taking stock of their surroundings. Not that there was much to take stock of. The walls were hewn out of rock. In places, the drill and pick marks were still clearly visible. Aside from that, and the half dozen oil lamps, there was nothing of interest in the room.

“We wait,” Gilan told him. “Might as well make yourself comfortable.” He indicated the cushions and Stig copied his actions, shoving a cushion against the wall, then placing another behind him as a backrest when he sat down. He shoved his legs straight out in front of him, splayed slightly apart, and studied his boots. After a few minutes, he shifted to a more comfortable position.

“Time these people were told about chairs,” he said.