Chapter Eleven

The heavy wooden chair back flew apart. The stubs of its uprights stood like broken teeth, and then they, too, flew apart as the sword thundered down between them and split the seat. Splinters hissed, and Harnak of Navahk screamed a curse as he whirled to the chest ­beside the ruined chair.
He drove his sword into it like an axe, then wrenched the blade free and brought it down again and again and again, cursing with every blow. He hacked until he could hack no more, then hurled the blade  across the room. It leapt back from the wall, ricocheting to the floor with a whining, iron clangor, and he glared down at it, gasping while spittle ran down his chin.
But then he closed his eyes. His wrist scrubbed across his mouth and chin, and he dragged in a deep, wracking breath as the Rage faded back from the brink of explosion. It was hard for him to beat it down, for he seldom chose to do so, but this time he had no choice.
He mastered it at last and shook himself, glaring about his chamber at the wreckage. Even the bedposts were splintered and gouged, and he clenched his jaw, feeling the gaps of missing teeth, as he wished with all his heart those same blows had landed upon Farmah or Bahzell Bahnakson.
He swore, with more weariness than passion now, and waded through the rubble to the window. He sat in the opening’s stone throat, staring hot-eyed out over the roofs of Navahk, and rubbed the permanent depression in his forehead while he made himself think.
The bitch was alive—alive!—and that slut Tala with her, and the pair of them were in Hurgrum!
The nostrils of his misshapen nose flared. How? How had two women, one a mere girl and beaten half to death into the bargain, gotten clear to Hurgrum through his father’s entire Guard? It wasn’t possible!
Yet that whoreson Bahzell had contrived it anyway. He’d drawn virtually all the pursuit after him, and he and that bastard Brandark—and it had to be Brandark, whatever the japester’s father claimed!—had cut the single patrol to find them into dog meat. And while they’d done that, somehow the bitches had reached that sanctimonious dog-lover Bahnak’s court. He’d actually taken them in, put them under his own protection in his very palace!
Harnak spat another curse, and fresh hatred rose as more spittle sprayed humiliatingly through his gap-toothed snarl. Bahnak had been careful to take no official note when Churnazh outlawed his son. He’d even restrained Farmah from accusing Harnak of the crime, for to contest the sentence Churnazh had imposed would commit him to a fresh war against Navahk. His own men would demand it—and his allies would slip away if he appeared too weak to launch it.
But, by the same token, Churnazh’s allies would never support an attack on Hurgrum. If he were attacked, yes, they would come to his aid, for each feared the destruction of any one of them would be the opening wedge for Bahnak’s conquest of them all. But they were too weakened—and frightened—by what Hurgrum had already done to carry a fresh war to Bahnak, which meant he had no need to refute the charges against his son. With Bahzell safely beyond Churnazh’s reach, all Bahnak had to do was keep silent and let his allies—and Navahk’s, curse them!—laugh.
And they were laughing. Harnak clenched his fists, choking on bile. Every bard in every city-state of the Bloody Swords and Horse Stealers alike seemed to be singing the tale of Bahzell Bahnakson’s cunning. They’d made the puking bastard some sort of hero, and if they never mentioned Harnak’s name, there was no need to. If Bahzell’s father was sheltering Farmah and she was content to have it so, then Bahzell couldn’t have raped her . . . and if he hadn’t, everyone knew who must have. No one dared say so, but Harnak had seen it even in the eyes of the Guard, and he dared not show his face in public. Only the iron fist of his father’s terror kept women from spitting on his shadow as he passed . . . and his father had five sons.
The crown prince glared down at his fists. He was the eldest son, his father’s heir . . . while Churnazh lived. But what would happen when he died? Harnak knew his brothers. All of them, with the possible exception of that gutless wonder Arsham, had tumbled unwilling wenches, yet no one knew they had. Now everyone knew he had—yes, and believed he’d tried to kill the girl, too. Either of those crimes was more than enough to absolve any warrior of loyalty to him, and all it needed would be for one of his brothers—just one—to claim the throne to set the army of Navahk at its own throat . . . and Harnak’s.
He couldn’t let that happen. Yet how could he stop it?
He brooded down at his fists, the flame of his hatred smoldering down to smoking embers that would never quite die, and thought.
There were only two possibilities, he told himself at last. Either all his brothers must die, leaving no other claimant of the blood to challenge him, or else Bahzell, Farmah, and Tala must die.
Neither solution was perfect. If he had his brothers murdered, they must all die in the same hour, and his father with them, for only one person in Navahk could profit by their deaths, and Churnazh would know it. Yet even if all four of his brothers—yes, and his father, too—perished, too many who remembered how Churnazh himself had butchered his way to the throne might seek to emulate him. A crown prince rapist believed to have murdered his entire family would be too weak and tempting a target for someone to pass by.
But if he settled for killing Bahzell—assuming he could find the Sharna-cursed bastard—and the bitches, he would have to hope his father lived for a great many years. If Bahzell died, he would become one more dead enemy, not a taunting reminder of failure, and Navahk had been taught to respect men whose enemies were all dead. And if the sluts died, then the living symbol of his crime would die, as well. Passing time would erode the certainty of his guilt, give Churnazh’s countercharges the chance to sink in, but it would take time. It would take years, more maddening years in which he would be denied his proper place, still crown prince and never ruler.
And he must have all three of them, for as long as any of them breathed, their very lives would keep the tale alive. All of his enemies must perish to put time on his side . . . and perhaps there was a way. One not even Churnazh guessed at. Nor would he, for if he should ever suspect what allies Harnak had taken, he would rip out his son’s heart with his own bare hands.
Harnak nodded, ruined face twisted in an ugly smile, and looked back out the window. The sun was well into the west. Once darkness fell, he had a call to pay.

The single horseman trotted quietly down the brush-choked valley. There was no road here, only a trail of beaten earth, and his horse’s hooves fell with a dull, muffled sound. The slopes to his left cut off the moon, drowning the narrow way in darkness, and something inside him basked in the black silence even as his horse snorted and tossed an uneasy head.
A mile fell away, then another, as he threaded his way into the twisting hills. Few came here, even in daylight, for the nameless hill range had an unchancy reputation. Of the few who came, fewer still departed, and even Harnak’s carefully chosen bodyguards—clanless men, outcasts who owed all they were or ever could be to him—had muttered uneasily when they realized his destination. They always did, and he’d sensed their frightened relief when he ordered them to stop and await his return. None of them knew what he did on his rides into the hills, and none cared to know, for they’d seen him come this way with prisoners tied to their saddles, and he always returned alone.
The rough trail rounded a final hill and ended against a high, blank face of stone, and his nervous horse curvetted and fought the bit, flecked with the sweat of panic, as he drew rein. He snarled and leaned forward to slam his balled fist down between its ears, and the beast squealed and went still.
Harnak grunted in satisfaction, dismounted, and tethered it to one of the stunted trees that grew in this place. He drew a golden amulet from the neck of his tunic as he approached the featureless stone slab, then spat on the ground with an odd formality and folded his arms to wait.
Seconds dribbled past, then a full minute, and then his horse whinnied fearfully and jerked against its tight-tied reins. Sullen green light glowed within the stone, growing brighter, stronger, with the livid emerald glitter of poison. The rock seemed to waver and flow, wrapped in its unnatural translucence while the venomous light threw Harnak’s shadow down the valley behind him like a distorted beast, and then, sudden as a falling blade, the light vanished—and took the barren stone hillside with it.
The opening before Harnak was . . . wrong. Its angles followed a subtly perverted geometry, none of them quite square, and the carved likeness of an enormous scorpion glared down from above it. Flickering red torchlight spilled out of the bowels of the hill, and a cowled figure stood framed against the glow, arms folded in the sleeves of its robe as it bowed.
“Welcome, My Prince.” The deep voice was human, not hradani, yet Harnak returned its bow with a respect he showed no other mortal.
“I thank you, Tharnatus, and beg leave to enter your house.” Not even the lisping sibilance of his missing teeth hid the deference—even fear—in the prince’s voice, and Tharnatus straightened.
“Not my house, My Prince,” he replied, as if completing a formal exchange, “but the House of the Scorpion.” He stood aside with a gesture of invitation, and Harnak bowed once more and walked past him into the hill.
The passage drove deep into the earth, its stone walls dressed and smooth, far more finely finished than anything in Churnazh’s palace. Arched side passages intersected it at intervals, and the faceted chips of mosaics glittered between them in the torchlight. Things of horror ruled those mosaics. Bat-winged nightmares stormed through screaming warriors, snatching them up, snapping off heads and limbs with chitinous jaws and pincers like battle-axes. Other shapes, more obscene still, slithered through opulent temples, hungry eyes afire as they crept and flowed and oozed toward altars where maidens fought their chains in shrieking terror. And above them all, half-hinted and half-seen like some hideous cloud, stalked the huge, flame-eyed scorpion, and on its back was a manlike shape that trailed horror like waves of smoke.
The central hall led onward to a larger chamber, circular and domed with natural rock polished to mirror brightness. Torchlight danced about them like a globe of swirling blood, and double doors, carved with the same images which had haunted the mosaics, loomed before them. Tharnatus thrust them open and went to his knees, then to his belly, as the sweet stench of incense rolled out over him, and Harnak fell to the floor behind him.
The prince lay motionless, disfigured face pressing the stone, until Tharnatus rose once more. The priest gazed down at him, then touched him with a booted toe ­between his shoulders, the gesture of an overlord to a servant.
“Rise, My Prince,” he intoned. Harnak rose and bent to kiss the hand the priest extended, then straightened as Tharnatus gestured him into the inner sanctum that proved not all gods had chosen to ignore the hradani.
The sickly-sweet incense was stronger, drifting in thin, eddying clouds, and the Scorpion of Sharna, god of demons and patron of assassins, crouched above them. The enormous sculpture towered over a stone altar, carved with blood channels and crowned with blood-encrusted iron manacles that gaped empty . . . for now, and Tharnatus and Harnak knelt side by side to press their foreheads to that hideous stone before they rose once more.
“So, My Prince!” the priest said more briskly as they completed their obeisance. “How may the House of the Scorpion aid one of its own?”
“You’ve heard the stories, I suppose?” Harnak knew he sounded surly, and surliness towards a priest of Sharna was dangerous, but his shame goaded him. Tharnatus regarded him in expressionless silence for a long ­moment, then let it pass. Harnak was heir to the throne of Navahk; even Sharna’s anointed could allow an occasional edge of disrespect when the Demon Lord had his pincers deep in a future ruler.
“I have, My Prince—assuming you refer to those concerning a certain palace servant and a prince of Hurgrum.”
“I do.” Harnak folded his arms, and his scarred and broken face was grim. “Between them, the slut and Bahzell—” he made the name a curse “—pose a threat to me and to my position. They must be eliminated.”
“I see.” Tharnatus gazed up at the scorpion above the altar, and his tone was thoughtful, even chiding. “You should have brought the girl here for your sport, My Prince. Had you done so, no one would ever have known. You might have enjoyed her far longer, and she could have fed the Scorpion when you were through. Now?” He shrugged, and Harnak flushed but kept his own voice level.
“I’ve brought the Scorpion many a feast, and I’ll bring Him more. But this slut was officially a ward of the crown. I thought it best her body be found rather than vanish and raise possibly dangerous questions.”
“Yet the course you followed led only to a different peril, did it not?” Harnak nodded unwilling assent at Tharnatus’ raised eyebrow, and the priest continued ­seriously. “My prince, such pleasures are your right, both as prince and servant of the Scorpion. But it is fitting neither for you to deny your brethren their pleasure nor the Scorpion His due, and you must be wary. You will never be fully secure until you rule Navahk in your own right. Until then, not even He can guard you from death if your actions lead to discovery.”
“Aye,” Harnak agreed in a sulky tone, “yet if the ­Scorpion had struck Churnazh down when first I asked, I would already wear the crown.”
“You know why that was impossible,” Tharnatus said sternly. “Your father’s guards are too alert to guarantee the dog brothers’ success, and we dare not disclose our own presence by sending a greater servant. If the dog brothers had tried and failed before the war, suspicion must have fallen upon you, and he would have had you killed. If we strike him down now, while his alliances are weak and disordered, we risk giving all of Navahk to Bahnak of Hurgrum, and Bahnak will be our mortal ­enemy so long as he draws breath.”
Harnak bent his head once more with a guttural sound of frustrated agreement, and the priest touched his shoulder.
“Be patient, My Prince.” He made his voice gentle. “Your time will come. Indeed, but for your own . . . ­involvement, we might attempt Churnazh now and lay the blame upon Bahnak or his son, trusting the thirst for vengeance against Hurgrum to hold the alliances ­together. As it is, we can but do our best within the possibilities open to us, and we shall. The Scorpion rewards His faithful well.”
Harnak nodded again, less choppily, and Tharnatus slapped his arm.
“Very well, My Prince. Tell me exactly what you wish done.”
“I want the sluts and Bahzell killed,” Harnak said flatly. “They have to die if the tales are ever to dwindle away, and until the tales do, my chance to take the throne is small.”
“Agreed.” Tharnatus furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “Yet it isn’t enough that they simply die, is it, My Prince? The women—” He waved a hand in dismissal. “All we require of them is silence, but Bahzell . . . we must prove his death, not simply remove him.”
Harnak’s ears twitched agreement, and the priest frowned once more. “Nor, I think, should we involve a greater servant in this. I doubt Bahnak guards the wenches as well as his own family, in which case the dog brothers can deal with them whenever we wish, perhaps even make it seem an accident. Yes,” he nodded, “that would be best—an accident that points no fingers at you. And to help with that, it would be as well to wait a time, I think.”
“I want them dead now!” Harnak snarled, but Tharn­atus shook his head.
“Patience, My Prince. Patience and stealth, those are the virtues of the Scorpion. It may be unpleasant, but you must endure it for a time longer. Think, My Prince. If nothing befalls them for weeks, or even a few months, few minds will leap to the conclusion that you had them killed. If you wanted that done, would you not have acted sooner?”
Harnak grunted, then jerked his head in assent.
“So,” the priest went on after a moment, “that leaves Bahzell, and in order to slay him, we first must find him. Not, I think, too difficult a task. The Scorpion’s least servants can find him even in deepest wilderness, in time, yet I doubt we will require their services. A hradani in other lands should be easy enough for the dog brothers to track without the Church’s aid, and if he’s found a place for himself far from Navahk or Hurgrum, so much the better. He’ll feel more secure, unthreatened and unwary until the dog brothers can take him. And,” Tharnatus smiled unpleasantly, “he is an outlaw, with a price on his head. What more reasonable than that someone should return that head to Navahk to claim blood price, and so prove his death to all the world?”
“He won’t die easy,” Harnak growled, one hand pressing his ribs. “I’ll not deny I thought him a weakling, but that’s a mistake I won’t make twice. In fact, I’d feel safer sending one of the greater servants after him.”
“Come now, My Prince!” Tharnatus chided. “He’s only one man, and any man is mortal. The dog brothers can deal with him—and the Scorpion’s servants are not to be squandered on tasks others can accomplish. We may use each of them but once for each blood binding.”
Harnak clenched his jaw, then sighed, for the priest was right. Sealing a demon to obedience was a risky business, even for the Church of Sharna. A single slip could—and would—spell the grisly death of the creature’s summoners, and such exercises of power were difficult to hide from those with eyes to see. Fortunately, there were few such eyes in hradani lands, where even Orr and his children were looked upon askance, but it would take only a single misstep to spell the destruction of this temple, for the hradani had not forgotten the Dark Gods’ part in the Fall of Kontovar. Harnak’s own cronies would cut his throat if they even suspected to whom he’d given his allegiance, but that was a risk he was willing to run. The secret power of the Scorpion had smoothed his way more than once, and the rituals that raised that power fed other, darker hungers.
“Very well, Tharnatus,” he said at length. “Let it be the dog brothers. And let it be soon. I’ll wait for the sluts, if I must, but I want that whoreson’s head to piss on in front of my father’s court!”
“And you shall have it, My Prince,” the priest murmured, then raised his head and smiled as a sound echoed down the hall behind him. He and Harnak turned to the open doors, and the sounds grew louder—and terrified. Pleas for mercy and the desperate, panting sounds of struggle floated through the doors, and then two cowled priests thrust a twisting, fighting figure through them.
The girl was young, no more than fifteen or sixteen, just ripening into the curves of womanhood and clad only in a thin white robe, and her arms were bound behind her. Her ears were flat to her skull, her eyes huge with panic, as she fought the binding cords, but there was no escape, and a dozen more priests and worshipers followed into the temple.
The captive’s pleas died in a strangled whimper as she saw the huge scorpion and the altar it crouched above. She stared at them, terror gurgling in the back of her throat, and then she threw back her head and shrieked in horror as her captors dragged her kicking, madly fighting body forward.
“As you see, My Prince,” Tharnatus purred through her hopeless screams, “your business here tonight can be mixed with pleasure as well.” He reached into his robe to withdraw the thin, razor sharp flaying knife and smiled at the crown prince of Navahk.
“Will you stay to share our worship?”