Scorpion Mountain by John Flanagan
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 toward 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 recognize. 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-meter-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 center of the defensive line. Still, she kept her eyes scanning to either side, waiting to see if any of them would try 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 mounting a frontal attack, looking to overwhelm the small group of defenders behind it.
The first of them realized 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 meter-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 gray-haired, disheveled 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 facedown, 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 from 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 meter 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 defenses 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 ax-headed spear wielded by the huge warrior behind the barricade. 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 toward 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 realized they were waist deep within a few meters, 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 farther.
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 backward 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.
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 meters off the beach, in water that was an ominous shade of red.
It was the last straw. The remaining members
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 defenses?”
“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, toward Gilan, but the slimly built Ranger held his ground. They were less than a meter 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 travelers 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 realized 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 offense 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 organization. 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.
“Th
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.