The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams)

by Kirsten Jones

  Fabian reined in sharply, holding his hand up to Mistral, signalling for her to stay behind him. She was too awed by the sheer numbers of the army to argue. Cirrus snorted and tossed his head at the overpowering smell of warlocks. They reeked of ozone.

  The warlock army were uniformly dressed in heavy black cloaks and, despite the heat of the afternoon sun they were all cowled, hiding their faces from view. They rode in rigidly disciplined rows with no sound other than the rhythmical thudding of hooves and splash of displaced water. Mistral stared wide-eyed at the advancing army. Even from a distance she could see that each warlock was unnaturally large. They were all mounted, utterly motionless, astride heavy warhorses. She lost count of their numbers as row upon row of sinister hooded figures forged through the murky water. She suddenly knew with a chilling certainty that if they met on the battlefield, the Ri would be slaughtered.

  Mistral urged Cirrus forward a couple of paces so that she was beside Fabian, the horse reluctantly obeyed her, his ears twitching nervously. Mistral glanced at Fabian; his face was set in a hard expression, his black eyes cold.

  ‘Stay here,’ he muttered to her, his eyes never leaving the massed ranks of warlocks. ‘I will find Eximius and speak with him.’

  Mistral frowned, ‘I think that’s my job isn’t it?’

  Fabian’s head snapped round to stare at her, his black eyes blazing, ‘Can you see that army?’ he hissed. ‘Warlocks are not normal Mages. They’re fighting machines! If they even suspect that there is something amiss here … that the Ri are involved in any way … they will kill you without a second thought!’

  ‘It’s not your decision to make,’ she insisted hotly. ‘I have a Contract to fulfil –’

  ‘Your Contract can go to hell for all I care!’ Fabian snapped. ‘I will deal with Leo! And in the meantime I think he would appreciate getting at least one apprentice back in working order.’

  Without another word he was gone, galloping towards the army and leaving her fuming, torn between the urge to gallop after him and an unusual compulsion to listen to reason.

  Still seething with indecision Mistral watching Fabian galloped through the shallow water alongside the flanks of the marching army, passing them easily and vanishing from her sight when he gained the far side. Not one of the hooded ranks of warlocks cast a glance in Fabian’s direction when he galloped past. Mistral realised with a start that he must be known to them and found it hard to think of Fabian as a Mage.

  Cirrus snorted and tossed his head, unsettled by the strangeness of the sorcering army. He wheeled, fighting for his head, Mistral struggled to control him; she knew he wanted to bolt. There was no way she would get him to ride towards that army after Fabian even if she wanted to. She reined him in, talking in a low soothing voice until he gradually calmed and stood still once more, allowing Mistral to turn her attention back to the warlocks surging through the water. The entire army moved as one at a relentless and deliberate pace, like an unstoppable wave of black menace pouring across the ford. The effect was almost hypnotic and Mistral lost track of time as she stood watching them until she suddenly noticed that something was happening.

  There was no sound, no shouted order that she had heard, but the army seemed to be responding to some unspoken command. A ripple seemed to pass through the ranks and the warlocks came to a halt, their horses standing perfectly still, like statues rather than living creatures. Mistral’s eyes raked the long unbroken line of warlocks, looking for the cause of the halt. She did not have to look far.

  Fabian was cantering lightly back along the line. A cloaked figure rode beside him mounted on an armoured warhorse. Mistral felt her eyes widen when they drew close enough for her to make out the features of the stranger. The rider was tall and broad and wore his greying hair cropped closely to his skull, making the horrific scarring on his face stand out starkly. Livid scars criss-crossed the Mage’s face in a map of long-healed wounds that told of a warlike past. A single jagged scar cut down the right side of his gnarled face, leaving his eye a strange milky colour that instantly reminded Mistral of the Divinus. As he approached Cirrus began to fidget restlessly, pulling against the bit in his mouth. Mistral reined him in distractedly, her attention fixed on the imposing figure riding towards her. She was in no doubt that this was Mage Eximius Grapple. Even from a distance he exuded power and authority. His famously disfigured face was hard and cold beneath its mantle of scars. Fabian rode silently beside him, his face an inscrutable mask. Mistral waited apprehensively for them to approach and suddenly missed the twins.

  Mage Grapple halted his horse a short distance away from her and Fabian reined Spirit in beside him, he didn’t look at Mistral but kept his eyes fixed on a distant point somewhere over her left shoulder, his expression carefully controlled.

  An oppressive silence fell while Mistral waited for the intimidating Mage to speak. He seemed in no hurry, but sat rigidly erect on his horse, regarding her coldly. The intensity of his eyes boring into hers made her want to look away but she forced herself not to. Lifting her chin slightly she looked steadfastly back. A faint shift in the hard set of his face made her think he’d seen whatever he was looking for and he abruptly turned and muttered something to Fabian that Mistral couldn’t catch. Fabian nodded stiffly, his face unmoving. Without another word Mage Grapple wheeled his warhorse around and cantered heavily back to his silently waiting army.

  Fabian didn’t move or speak as Mage Grapple rode away, his face drawn tight with tension. She flicked her gaze back to the retreating Mage, watching him slowing his horse to a walk when he neared the motionless ranks of his army. He briefly inclined his head and spoke to two of the oddly frozen warlocks and without pausing for a response, he kicked his horse on into the ford, sending plumes of water up into the air as the heavy beast pounded through the river.

  She looked back at Fabian, instantly his black gaze locked onto hers. His lips barely moved as he spoke.

  ‘Two warlocks are coming to guard you. Whatever you do, do not antagonise them. Eximius has agreed to speak with me.’

  ‘But –’ Mistral began to argue in a whisper.

  Fabian cut her short with a searing look, ‘They will kill you without hesitation! Just try not to irritate them and I will return to you as soon as I can.’

  He pulled Spirit’s head around and galloped off before she could respond. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, she watched him until his bright palomino was swallowed up by the mass of black moving through the ford. Her feeling of vulnerability intensified when Mistral saw two huge warlocks peel off from the rest of the army and ride towards her, their heavy horses moving with a ponderous gait. When they drew closer to her Mistral didn’t doubt Fabian’s warning; she could clearly make out the outline of a sword hilt under the side of each warlock’s robe.

  Without seeming to give any visible command to their horses they stopped directly in front of her, close enough for her to smell the stale odour of their sweat and the ozone stink of sorcery. Mistral held Cirrus tightly; he was fidgeting nervously. In contrast, the warlocks’ horses were so still that they barely seemed to be breathing. The silence stretched out while Mistral waited tensely for one of the darkly cowled statues to speak.

  After several long seconds a voice emanated from the depths of one of the hoods, it had a gravelly and strangely discordant sound, as though the user rarely spoke.

  ‘You smell of blood.’

  Mistral blinked, taken aback by the sinister statement and realised with a start that her clothes and hair were still covered in streaks of dried Wolverine blood. The fight with the Blackheart Wolverines in the meadow seemed a lifetime ago, not a few hours ago.

  The faceless warlock didn’t speak again, but their hooded faces and massive bodies radiated menace. Mistral felt her skin crawl under the scrutiny of their unseen gaze. She could smell the Wolverine blood on her, making her feel dirty and uncomfortable. The sound of the river lapping against the bank beside her filled her with a sudden urge to be clean, to
wash the blood and emotion of the day away.

  ‘I’m going to wash,’ she said shortly and started to pull Cirrus’ head around.

  ‘Leave your horse,’ the gravelly voice barked.

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Mistral snapped, remembering Fabian’s words a second too late.

  A tremor seemed to pass through the two warlocks and the air around them shimmered. Mistral suddenly smelt ozone again but before she could react the spell hit her with a force that lifted from the saddle. Carried by an unseen wave of energy she spun head over heels up into the air then abruptly crashed heavily onto the hard ground. Winded and dazed, Mistral clambered unsteadily to her feet. Fabian had obviously not been exaggerating.

  Cirrus was snorting and wheeling around her, his eyes rolling wildly. Feeling anger fill her with much needed strength, Mistral grabbed hold of his bridle and jerked round to face the two motionless warlocks. Her infamous temper was on the brink of spilling over but she forced it back. This was one fight she would never win. Willing herself to speak calmly, she placed a soothing hand on Cirrus’ neck.

  ‘Where can I leave him?’ she demanded and was pleased to hear that her voice didn’t shake.

  Neither warlock spoke or stirred for a long moment. It was as though she were talking to the dead. Then the same gravelly voice that had spoken before growled from beneath one of the dark hoods.

  ‘The horse enclosure is on the south side of the ford.’

  Mistral nodded tersely and began to walk towards the silent warlocks, hauling an unwilling Cirrus by the bridle. Neither warlock stirred as she passed them. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her and carried on walking towards the ford. She felt the hairs of the back of her neck prickling uncomfortably. It went against every instinct to turn her back on an enemy and her hand twitched for a sword. Gritting her teeth, she controlled the urge, knowing instinctively that one false move would be her last. It was only when she was nearly at the water’s edge that she realised the warlocks had dismounted too and were walking behind her, as silent as drifting smoke.

  The rest of the army had crossed the ford now and the churned brown water was slowly settling to become a tranquil glassy river once more. Mistral knew it would be easier to mount Cirrus and ride through the shallow ford but the spell the warlocks had cast had left her legs feeling weak and shaky. She didn’t think she had the strength to mount, and there was no way she was going to ask one of them for a leg-up. Resigning herself to wet boots and legs, she led Cirrus into the water and consoled herself with the thought that the warlocks were on foot too.

  When she gained the far side she immediately saw the horse enclosure. At least fifty solid looking warhorses were gathered in a large fenced area. A single wooden bar served for a gate at one end. She approached the entrance cautiously but no-one challenged her. Sliding the saddle and bridle from her restless horse, she lifted the bar and let Cirrus into the enclosure. He walked in with uncharacteristic reluctance and looked around uncertainly before dropping his head to nibble at the sparse grass.

  Hoping that at least her horse had the sense not to pick a fight with one of the colossal warhorses, Mistral gave one last concerned look in his direction then made her way back along the river bank to find a place to wash. She shot her sinister guards an apprehensive glance; would they follow her there too? But they were standing motionless once more beside the horse enclosure, their own horses stood silently beside them.

  The late afternoon sun was soothing on her skin after the coldness of the water. It felt good to be clean again and away from the watchful gaze of her warlock guardians. Mistral sat, barefoot, in her last pair of clean trousers and vest, watching the sunlight sparkling on the rippling surface of the river. Every now and then a fish would break the surface and send circles of diamonds spreading out across the water. Mistral listened to the gentle babbling of the water and the high calls of swallows swooping over the water and felt her eyes begin to close.

  A small sound behind her made her turn, reaching instinctively for the pair of swords lying next to her. Fabian De Winter stood a few paces behind her, a solemn expression on his pale face.

  ‘I apologise if I startled you,’ he said, walking towards her across the flat rocks with an easy loping grace. ‘I have spoken with Eximius and thought you would be interested to know his decision.’

  Mistral looked at him expectantly, although she already knew what he was about to say.

  Fabian sighed and, to Mistral’s surprise, sat down lightly beside her.

  ‘He understands the situation … fully. But, as I am sure you suspected, he is planning to travel to The Desert Lands anyway.’

  ‘I knew he would,’ sighed Mistral, looking back out across the water.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes with the tranquillity of the river. The forthcoming battle seemed a lifetime away from this moment.

  ‘Why did you come back?’ Mistral suddenly asked, turning to look at Fabian.

  He didn’t look at her but continued to gaze at the river. Mistral was abruptly struck by how perfect his profile was, the clean line of his jaw, the strong straight nose, the high cheekbones framed by dark, tousled hair. He turned his head and gazed at her, a small furrow had appeared between his eyebrows.

  ‘I told you I would return to you. I never break my word.’

  ‘No, I meant this morning. You were gone when we woke up,’ Mistral said and saw something shift in his expression.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Fabian shortly. He tossed a small stone into the river; it skipped three times before sinking into the clear water. ‘I went hunting for some rabbits for breakfast. I wanted to make amends in the hope you would give me the opportunity to explain myself.’ he gazed at her, his dark eyes filled with complete sincerity.

  ‘Oh,’ Mistral breathed, dropping her gaze. Such a simple explanation, yet she had been all too ready to think the worst of him …

  Fabian read her expression and was instantly riled, ‘Did you think I had gone? Run away like a coward and left you all to go on this godforsaken Contract alone?’

  ‘No!’ Mistral shook her head quickly. ‘I – er, I mean we didn’t think that –’her voice trailed off and she looked away, unable to finish the lie.

  Fabian snorted, ‘The twins. Those two have devious minds! But,’ his tone changed and grew incredulous, ‘did you really think that I would betray Leo?’

  Mistral said nothing and stared out at the water, hiding the shame in her eyes.

  Fabian’s voice was low but it shook with suppressed anger, ‘I would never betray Leo. He is like a brother to me.’

  Mistral turned to look at him. His eyes were blazing with an emotion so powerful that it took her breath away. She held his scorching gaze for as long as she could before lowering her eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, meeting his gaze again to see the burning light die from his eyes, seeming to drain his face of colour as it left, leaving him looking utterly exhausted. Mistral suddenly realised that it had been a long day for him too.

  ‘So, what exactly did you tell Mage Grapple?’ she asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  ‘The truth, or at least a version of it,’ he smiled to himself. ‘Eximius is well aware of Count Putreo’s scheming ways and suspected that he had a hand in this whole affair anyway. I just confirmed his suspicions.’

  ‘But how did you explain me being here? And how did you leave Leo out of it?’

  Fabian shrugged lightly, ‘I told him I had found the information out through my own sources. He didn’t enquire any further … and as to you,’ he glanced swiftly at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘I told him that I rescued you from a Wolverine attack on the way and you were shaken by the experience and begged for my company.’

  Mistral stared at him speechlessly. She didn’t know what was worse, that he claimed to have rescued her, or that Mage Grapple thought she was some kind of pathetic female that wandered around needing to be saved by random passers-by.

&n
bsp; ‘Please tell me you are joking!’ she managed in a choked voice.

  ‘Sorry,’ Fabian said, looking anything but apologetic. ‘But it was nearly the truth.’

  Mistral seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, fighting the urge to punch him, or stab him, or worse.

  ‘Well I’m glad you told him the truth,’ she finally spat through her teeth.

  ‘You are?’ he looked surprised.

  ‘Yes, because I’m a terrible liar and now I won’t have to, which makes it simpler for me to get on the ship.’

  Fabian stared at her wordlessly, anger flickered across his face, ‘You don’t have to go now! I have told Eximius the truth! You can return to the Valley knowing you’ve done as much as you can!’

  ‘I have to go,’ she stated flatly.

  His face furrowed in frustration, ‘Did you not see the warlocks? The size of them? Their sheer numbers? They don’t fight with their enemies, they annihilate them!’

  ‘Who happen to include my brothers!’ she hissed back at him. ‘Don’t you see that I have to go? I’ve let them all down! Instead of deflecting Mage Grapple I’ve sent him and an army of warlocks right to them! They’ll all be killed, and it’s my fault! The least I can do is fight and die with them.’

  Fabian stared at her incredulously, ‘And what would you achieve by dying too?’

  Mistral glared at him, ‘I’d die knowing I did the right thing.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! It’s a suicide mission! I cannot allow you to go!’

  She riled, stung by his patronising tone, ‘It’s not up to you, Mage. My Captain sent me on this Contract, and I will go.’

  Fabian’s jaw clenched, ‘You will not go. I refuse to have your death on my conscience.’

  ‘Your conscience? I don’t give a damn for your conscience! You refuse? Huh! Well I refuse to go running back to the Valley just to ease your precious conscience!’ Mistral was shouting now, shaking with anger. It felt like she was eight years old again and being told what to do.