by Richard Ford
As the spittle ran down his cheek his only response was to look down at Janessa and smile.
She could feel herself weakening, her vision darkening, filling with images of strange horrors. She would never be able to resist and she knew it. Ultimately Dravos would win.
It was too late now. Too late for her, for the city … for her child. No heroes were coming. No one would save her.
The world began to darken, and she wondered if there would ever be light again.
As her mind faded, she seemed to see the image of a man’s face … a beautiful face, marred on one side by a crisscross of scars.
She knew him from long ago. It seemed important somehow … but for the life of her she couldn’t work out why.
And as the dark began to consume her she realised she no longer cared …
TWENTY-FIVE
Mandel Shakurian closed his eyes and listened to the sea crashing against the cliffs. It was a sound that usually filled him with peace and made his worries seem to fade. But today Mandel remained troubled.
He was a Prince of Keidro Bay, Third Lord of the Serpent Road, Master of Ghulrit Island and High Overseer of the Spice Web. By far the wealthiest of his peers he lived in a coastal manse that was all but unassailable. It sat on the easternmost promontory of the island, looking out towards Dravhistan, and was surrounded by walls reaching forty feet towards the sky. Sheer cliffs made it impossible to reach from the sea, and only a single gate, guarded day and night, allowed access from the land. Mandel Shakurian should have felt secure in his holdfast. But he did not.
His troubles had started weeks before with the news that Bolo Pavitas had been murdered in Steelhaven. Not surprising news in itself, Bolo had always been reckless and his early demise expected, but it had heralded a slaughter never before seen in Keidro Bay.
Five Lords of the Serpent Road lay dead. Five of Mandel’s fellows – all men of wealth and power. Pirate kings, surrounded by veritable armies, killed in their homes, on their ships or even in the street. And there was no pattern to the murders; two had been killed silently in the night, the others murdered along with dozens of their guards. The warlord Amon Tugha must have unleashed all the assassins of the Riverlands to cause such mayhem in Keidro Bay, the very place the Lords of the Serpent Road were supposed to be safest.
Curse Amon Tugha to the Underworld, and curse the day the Lords of the Serpent Road had ever entered into a bargain with him. It had seemed a good deal at the time – the pirates would provide a fleet of artillery ships and the men to sail them in return for a supply of prime Teutonian slaves, much sought after in the Eastern Lands since the abolition of the slave trade in the north. Naturally, after the death of Bolo and the loss of all those slaves, the bargain had been annulled … or so they had thought. Now it could not be clearer that Amon Tugha was still determined to have his ships.
‘No!’ said Mandel aloud, opening his eyes and looking out onto the turbulent sea.
He would never give in to the demands of some Elharim outcast. He was Mandel Shakurian, wealthiest of the Lords of the Serpent Road. He had not reached his dominant status by crumbling at every threat of assassination.
His manse was a virtual fortress, manned by forty of the most savage warriors in the known world. Many had been bought from the fighting pits of Mekkala, with a few from far-flung Kaer’Vahari. He had bolstered their number with enslaved tribesmen bought from the warlord beast-men of Equ’un – these warriors, though scarred and demoralised by their enslavement were yet formidable fighters, and they would obey his every whim.
The other Lords of the Serpent Road had been careless, had not taken the threat seriously enough. Mandel would not make that mistake. He had made himself safe here. There was nothing to fear. Yet still he could not rest.
He breathed deeply, sucking up the sea air and trying his best to put such thoughts away. Something to take his mind off it, perhaps?
Food? Mandel patted his substantial belly. Perhaps not.
Whores? But no, not that diversion for the moment. Mandel had more than slaked his thirst for women over the past days of strife. Besides, there was no telling what guise Amon Tugha’s assassins might come in. He must be wary of strangers, must keep himself surrounded by men he knew he could trust.
Music perhaps?
Mandel Shakurian relaxed just a little. Of all the pleasures he indulged in there were none he relished so much as music.
He walked to the huge oak cabinet that took up one wall of his chamber. With his heart aflutter he opened the six doors, each intricately carved with scenes of merriment and debauchery. Inside was an array of musical instruments from the four corners of the known world: a harp, from Kaer’Vahari, its frame carved to resemble a swan; war pipes from the snowy wastes of Golgartha, their sound as wicked as the barbarians who had crafted them; a black polished lute reputed to have been played by the Sword King Craetus himself; drums from the tribes of the Aeslanti, said to be made from human hide; and an array of others. Mandel looked at his collection with pride.
As a boy he had been trained in many arts and had become an accomplished musician before moving into the spice trade. But as much as he loved music, he had always loved money more, making it an easy choice to become a merchant rather than a minstrel. Nevertheless, Mandel often still played for the sheer pleasure of it.
He strolled in front of the instruments, wondering which to pick. The lute looked the most attractive to him and he reached out a hand for it.
A loud bell began to ring.
Mandel recognised it instantly – the alarum.
An intruder.
But it couldn’t be. Not in his impregnable citadel. Nothing short of an army could break in. It must be some mistake … a false alarm?
Nevertheless, Mandel locked his chamber door and slid across the three bolts that would secure him inside. As he backed away he stared at that door, wondering what was coming from the other side. Whether it would be able to smash its way through. Whether it would simply wait him out.
A scream echoed across the rooftops of the manse.
And the bell stopped ringing.
Mandel looked around him. He had to defend himself. There must be something in his chamber he could use as a weapon. But Mandel Shakurian was no warrior. He had no need for weapons. That’s why he surrounded himself with bodyguards. That’s what he paid good, honest gold for.
Another scream, followed by voices shrill with panic.
It appeared his good, honest gold might well be going to waste.
Mandel moved to the cabinet, grabbing the black lute by the neck and brandishing it threateningly … or as threateningly as he could manage. He knew he must look pathetic, but the feel of the sturdy wood in his hands reassured him somewhat.
More shouts from outside, the clashing of metal. The scream of someone falling from a great height suddenly cut short by a sickening thud.
He was breathing heavily now and had a sudden urge to piss. This was intolerable, but what was he to do?
Perhaps he could bargain. Perhaps gold would get him out of this. It had always worked before. There was not a man in all the continents of the world who couldn’t have his loyalty questioned by the promise of riches. It was how Mandel had risen so high. Bribery had always been his weapon of choice, followed only when necessary by threats of violence and blackmail. It had always worked before.
A thudding at the chamber door made Mandel jump, and he let out a pathetic squeak.
They were here. They had come for him and he had no one to protect him.
Another rap at the door.
Mandel tightened his grip on the lute. He wondered ruefully if this was it; the ending of his song.
‘My lord? Are you in there?’
Mandel let out the breath he had been holding at the sound of Dahlen, his equerry.
Another insistent knock. ‘My lord? Please let me in.’
Mandel moved forward, then stopped. What if Dahlen was being held at knifepoint? What if the
assassins who had invaded Mandel’s home were waiting on the other side of the door?
Dahlen knocked again. ‘Please, my lord, we must get you out of here.’
‘How do I know this isn’t a trick?’ Mandel asked, trying desperately to subdue the quaking in his voice.
‘My lord, please, we don’t have time for this. We have to leave while we still have the chance.’
Mandel considered his options. Stay inside until the intruders were able to break down the door, and he was dead. Or, if he opened the door and it was a trick, he was dead.
His only chance was to trust Dahlen.
Mandel slid back the bolts and opened the door, expecting to be faced by murderous assassins.
Dahlen looked fearful – terrified even – but Mandel could have hugged him. At his back were three of the fiercest looking men Mandel had ever seen, but they were his men. Loyal to the core. Ready to give their lives for him.
‘Come, my lord,’ said Dahlen. ‘We must hurry.’
Mandel didn’t argue, following his equerry out into the corridor. The three bodyguards surrounded them, two at the front, brandishing their swords warily, one at the back, an axe in his ebon-skinned hands.
As they moved through the manse towards the only entrance gate, Mandel was met by an appalling scene. The bodies of his men lay sprawled about the place amongst broken furniture and smashed ornaments. Blood daubed the walls, corpses stared blank-eyed and it was all Mandel could do to avoid their accusatory gaze.
With racing heart, Mandel moved through the house with his men until they reached his feasting hall in the centre of the building. There were no windows here, the only light in the chamber coming from the ornate candelabras that lined the room.
A sudden groan drew Mandel’s eyes through the gloom to where one of his guards was propped against the wall. Blood was oozing from the man’s mouth, and his hands were holding in a sausage-string pile of entrails that hung from his slit guts.
‘We’re nearly there, my lord,’ said Dahlen, sounding as panicked as Mandel felt. The equerry turned to give a reassuring smile, but instead his eyes widened in terror. Mandel spun round and saw that the bodyguard bringing up their rear was no longer there.
Something cut the air swift as an arrow, and with a clang one of the candelabras tumbled, extinguishing its candles and plunging part of the room into darkness.
The remaining bodyguards brandished their weapons, but found nothing in the shadows. Still Mandel moved up beside Dahlen and the two men clung to each other in fear, at any moment expecting a horde of savage cut-throats to come rushing from the black and hack them to pieces.
Another clang, and a second candelabra fell. The room darkened further. Something moved to Mandel’s right and without hesitation one of his bodyguards stepped bravely towards it.
Behind them the second bodyguard grunted and lurched forward, a knife buried in his back.
‘Good gods …’ cried Mandel, but never got to say more before the final candelabra toppled to the ground, plunging the chamber into total blackness.
Mandel clung to Dahlen for dear life as they stumbled through the dark, towards the far door and the main gate of the manse. And all the while Mandel clutched his lute, feeling his heart beating, wanting to scream, wanting to beg.
Ahead of him Dahlen fumbled in the shadows, a door handle turned, a latch snapped opened and there was sudden light. Mandel all but fell over his equerry in his haste to leave the blackened chamber behind him, and they both staggered out into the reception hall.
Mandel turned, expecting an assassin to come rushing at him from the dark, but it was his last bodyguard who staggered forward through the doorway. A bloody stream welled from a great gash in his throat. He did not walk far. Dahlen screamed with terror as he pulled Mandel after him and across the chamber. The reception hall in Mandel’s manse was magnificent to behold, constructed to demonstrate the opulence of his home and the wealth he bore. Marble pillars filled the room, hewn to resemble vast tree trunks with vines twisting about their pure white boughs. The walls were lined with mirrors, making the room seem truly enormous, but Mandel had no time to admire his reflection now. The mirrors only served to multiply the corpses strewn in Mandel’s path.
‘Almost there, my lord,’ Dahlen gasped as they reached the front door of the manse. The equerry fumbled with the ring full of keys at his belt until he found the right one to thrust into the lock. Mandel’s fear began to subside with the prospect of escape.
Dahlen flung open the door, revealing the courtyard beyond and the main gate at the far end. It stood open; in its shadow two dead guards lay awkwardly in pools of their own blood. But Mandel made no attempt to run across the courtyard. He stood stock still as he felt the cool metal of a blade press itself to his throat.
As he turned, Dahlen’s eyes widened with terror. He could see the assassin and the knife held to his master’s throat.
‘Dahlen?’ said Mandel, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted his equerry to do.
Then a voice, so close that Mandel could feel the breath of it on his neck. ‘Run away.’
Two simple words in the Teutonian tongue. Dahlen stared for the briefest moment as though he couldn’t believe his luck, then he began to move away.
‘Dahlen, don’t leave me here,’ begged Mandel, but his equerry was already stumbling across the courtyard.
‘I am truly sorry, master,’ he cast over his shoulder as he fled through the gate.
Mandel stared in terror as his ‘faithful’ equerry abandoned him to his fate.
‘Close the door,’ whispered the voice.
With his free hand, Mandel pushed the large door of his manse closed. In the other he was still clutching the black wooden lute, though he doubted it would do him any good now.
Once the door was shut, the assassin removed his knife from Mandel’s neck. ‘Turn around,’ he ordered.
Mandel turned slowly, wondering what kind of monster Amon Tugha had unleashed. He was certainly not expecting the youth that faced him. Though his clothes were drenched in the blood of Mandel’s men and one side of his face was marred by a crisscross of scars, he was not the beast Mandel had imagined. The assassin was barely more than a boy, his features strong and, despite the scars, handsome. But when Mandel looked into his eyes he saw no mercy there, no remorse. They were eyes that had seen death on a scale Mandel could only dream of and he knew he was staring into the face of his killer.
‘Get on with it then,’ he said, sick of the waiting. He would not be toyed with, not be made to suffer further. If he was to die it would be on his own terms. He had not risen to such a level of wealth and power by being craven every time he was threatened with death.
The assassin, however, shook his head. ‘No, Mandel Shakurian. I have not come here to kill you.’
Then what? You’ve come round to bandy words over tea and sweetcakes? Because I’m not sure murdering an entire cohort of my bodyguard was quite necessary if you have!
‘I don’t …’
The assassin fished inside his grey tunic and, in a hand slick with blood, produced a piece of parchment. ‘You will sign this,’ he said, offering the paper, ‘or you will have this.’ In his other hand he showed the well-used blade. There was little doubt as to his meaning.
With a quivering hand Mandel reached out and took the dog-eared piece of vellum. He scanned the neat script, written in the Merchant’s Cant of the Eastern Lands. It contained the particulars of their original promissory note to Amon Tugha, detailing the fleet of ships they would provide, the mariners set to sail them, the artillery they would transport and the mercenaries to use it. At the bottom of the paper, scrawled in red ink by shaky hands were four other names – the surviving four Lords of the Serpent Road – Lyssa of Tul Shazan, Lord Kurze, Halcion Graal and Javez Al Kadeef. Of the remaining lords, only his signature was missing.
‘But …’ Mandel didn’t know what to say. He had been the first to suggest they stand up to the Elharim tyra
nt, but it was obvious his fellow lords had all succumbed to the warlord’s persuasive messenger.
‘You will sign this, or you will have this,’ the assassin repeated.
Mandel stared at him, into his young face with those cold eyes that spoke an experience beyond their years. For a fleeting moment he wondered if this was one of Amon Tugha’s Elharim assassins, an immortal killer from the far north. Not that it mattered. If this was only a man it was clear he could kill Mandel just as dead as any immortal.
‘I have no quill or ink,’ Mandel said, for it was obvious he had no choice in this.
In one swift movement the assassin pulled something from his sleeve and stabbed forward. Mandel gave a yelp as it pierced the flesh of his forearm. Then the assassin held the object out before him. It was a long thin needle of metal, one end tapered like a quill and now thickly coated with Mandel’s blood.
With a shaking hand Mandel took the metal implement and signed his name on the parchment, noting his own mark was just as spidery as the rest. Once it was done, the assassin took the parchment and quill from him and secured them within his tunic.
‘This will not be forgotten,’ said the scarred killer. ‘Any betrayal will not be forgiven.’ Mandel nodded compliantly before the assassin said, ‘Turn around.’
Without a word, Mandel obeyed.
He stared at the wood of his front door for what seemed an age. At any moment he expected the assassin to stab him in the back or slit his throat, but no such killing blow was struck. When he found the courage to turn around, the assassin was gone.
Shaking at the knees, Mandel opened his front door, allowing the light of the sun to bathe him, feeling the relief well up inside. He stepped out onto the courtyard, stood amongst the corpses of his bodyguard, and noticed the lute he still held in his hand.
A lot of good it had done him.
He let it fall to the ground with a discordant clang. Then he picked up the fallen blade of one of his guards.
He needed to find his equerry, Dahlen.
Mandel would enjoy teaching him the meaning of loyalty …
