The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams)

by Kirsten Jones

  November dragged on in a procession of endless grey skies and drizzling rain. Mistral awoke at dawn as usual and lay staring at the ceiling. The pale grey light filtering through the window barely dispelled the darkness in her room. It was a Sunday, but instead of lingering in her warm bed she rose and dressed quickly; it was too cold to dress slowly. She sat on the edge of her bed to drag on her boots, watching her breath mist the air in front of her. Boots on, she stood up and belted her double-swords across her back then added a short crossbow. Next she grabbed her saddlebag from the floor and hurriedly began filling it with items she would need for the day: a length of rope, medical kit, travelling cloak, leather fingerless gloves, waterskin and tinderbox. Mistral looked around for the last item she needed and knelt down to peer under her bed. There, nestling right at the back in the dark shadows, was her knife belt. She pulled it out and quickly checked all the throwing knives were there before strapping the belt on. After a moment’s pause she reached under her pillow and pulled out the short dagger she kept there, stuffing it into the back of her belt.

  Dressed and ready to face the day, Mistral left her room.

  The corridor outside her room was deserted. She made no effort to tiptoe, despite the earliness of the hour and her booted steps echoed loudly on the wooden floor. She reached the end of the corridor and ran down the twisting flight of stone steps to the ground floor. The stone flagged floor muted the sound of her footsteps as she strode past the Main Hall and on to the Refectory. She wasn’t particularly hungry but she knew that she must eat. She would need strength for the day ahead.

  The Refectory was mercifully empty. Mistral walked past the rows of tables and benches and cast an indifferent glance at the sky through the long windows flanking the length of the room. It was a typical November day, the sky a uniform brooding grey releasing occasional fat drops of rain to splash against the glass.

  A clattering noise coming from behind the double doors at the end of the room drew her attention. Bernadette was working in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

  As Mistral neared the end of the hall, a pair of heavy wooden shutters banged open to reveal the serving hatch from the kitchen. A harassed looking woman in a grubby white apron was stacking wooden bowls next to a large iron pot. She looked up and caught sight of Mistral.

  ‘Good morning dearie,’ she smiled cheerfully, making her flushed cheeks dimple. ‘Come and get some while it’s still hot!’

  Mistral lifted the lid off the iron pot and sniffed warily at the contents. Bernadette was a dangerously enthusiastic cook.

  ‘Porridge,’ Mistral concluded with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Yes dear,’ dimpled Bernadette, adding. ‘And there’s a fish stew on the way!’

  She bustled off happily into the steamy depths of the kitchen leaving Mistral quickly ladling out a small bowl of porridge before the fish stew arrived. She took her bowl and sat at one of the empty tables. She was staring morosely out of the window, her bowl of porridge untouched before her when a voice startled her out of her reverie.

  ‘Well if it isn’t our own ray of sunshine,’ sighed Phantasm sitting lightly down beside her and laying a huge book on the table in front of him.

  Phantom glided elegantly to the other side of the table, his angelic face mischievous, ‘We trust you had a refreshing night of beauty sleep?’ he enquired with theatrical solicitousness.

  ‘And sweet dreams,’ murmured his brother, giving her a hooded look.

  ‘Yes thanks.’ Mistral replied and looked quickly down at her cold porridge. She was convinced that the twins knew, or at least suspected, the truth about her recent state of mind.

  ‘And what delights has our cook extraordinaire prepared for us this morning?’ enquired Phantom, dubiously poking Mistral’s untouched porridge with her spoon.

  ‘Porridge,’ Mistral replied. ‘But there’s a fish stew on the way.’

  The twins instantly pulled identical faces of disgust, making Mistral smile.

  ‘Careful, it might crack,’ Phantasm chided.

  Phantom clicked his fingers in his brother’s direction, ‘I’ll take the porridge – without lumps, please waiter.’

  His brother shot him a filthy look and slipped from his seat, returning seconds later with two bowls. Laying them on the table with mock flourish he resumed his seat and began to eat, enquiring between mouthfuls about Mistral’s plans for the day ahead. Sunday was usually a day to be filled with leisure, or any Contract going if you were Mistral.

  ‘I’ve got a Contract,’ she confirmed with a nod in the direction of her packed saddlebag.

  The twins raised their eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘There’s a gargoyle nest in the mountain ridge above the northern pass. They’re picking off the flocks overwintering on the lower pastures. I’ve got to destroy the nest and the gargoyles too.’

  ‘What fun,’ teased Phantasm. ‘You really know how to have a good time.’

  ‘And you do?’ she retorted, throwing a meaningful glance at the dusty tome on the table.

  Phantasm stroked the book’s leather cover reverently, ‘A Brief History of Council Politics: Volume One.’

  ‘He’s saving Volume Two for next week. Apparently it’s a belter,’ added Phantom dryly.

  Voices from across the room made them look up. More apprentices were coming in for breakfast.

  ‘I’ve got to get going,’ Mistral said quickly.

  Leaving her bowl of porridge uneaten, she gathered up her things and rapidly left the Refectory, keeping her head bowed to avoid talking to anyone.

  Mistral stepped out of the Entrance Hall into a mist of fine drizzle and realised that she did that a lot these days; left rooms as other people came in. It was more out of self-preservation than out of dislike for the other apprentices. She was terrified that one of them would look into her eyes and see the truth she fought so hard to conceal. In particular she avoided Konrad, knowing that the half-drow would pick up on her misery and bask in her emotional state like some huge parasite.

  She made her way down to the stableyard, nodding a greeting to the Equus when he appeared, bare chested and sweating, in the doorway of the forge.

  ‘He’s fed and watered,’ he called then turned immediately back to the blistering heat of the forge.

  Cirrus whickered a greeting to her when she walked into his stall. Mistral smiled and felt a spurt of gratitude towards her horse, knowing that she didn’t have to pretend to him. She slipped a heavy cloth over his back before adding his saddle and her saddlebag. Finally she stroked his ears, persuading him to lower his head so that she could gently pull the leather straps of the bridle around his head, taking time to check each one was correctly buckled before leading him out into the yard.

  She swung herself up into the saddle and walked him out of the yard and onto the path leading to the North Gate. She was grateful that they didn’t meet another person. It was still early and most people were taking advantage of their day off to have a lie in. Before long, she was trotting through the huge North Gate and out onto the open meadows. Drawing in a deep lungful of damp air Mistral felt an immediate wave of relief at leaving the claustrophobic confines of the Valley and not having to pretend and lie for the day.

  The light drizzle stopped completely as she followed the narrow winding trail that would take her up into the mountains. It was colder here and before long Mistral stopped to pull on the heavy cloak she had packed in her saddlebag. She redid the flaps and realised disinterestedly that she’d forgotten to bring anything to eat.

  The trail began to rise more steeply and Mistral let Cirrus have his head to pick his own way through the loose stones and rocks. His ears flickered occasionally at the small sounds he heard, the scrabbling of a mountain hare running for cover, the high call of an eagle hunting overhead. Mistral listened carefully for other sounds, the scream of an attacking gargoyle in particular. The Contract was not particularly difficult and she would have quite simply of located the nest and shot it with a
flaming bolt from her crossbow had she not been given specific instructions to retrieve any eggs from the nest before destroying it. Nesting gargoyles were fiercely protective of their eggs and Mistral spent the ride mentally preparing herself for the task, running through a list of known ways to kill gargoyles.

  Fire – very effective and the easiest method.

  Arrows – ineffective, gargoyles have extremely tough skin.

  Bolts – better, even more effective if dipped in poison first.

  Swords – gargoyles need to be beheaded to be completely sure of death.

  Daggers and Throwing Knives – serve only as a distraction. Effective only in the softer skin of the throat and belly.

  She rode on for the rest of the morning, climbing steadily higher up though the wet cloud bank and out the other side, where the air was icily cold under a suddenly blue sky. She shivered, pulling the hood of her cloak up to cover her head.

  The trail crested a narrow ridge and dropped down to a small rocky plateau on the other side. The plateau was hemmed in by the ridge and by the sheer sides of the mountain. The trail ended here. Mistral stopped and dismounted, looking around on the ground for evidence of gargoyle activity. She did not have to look very far. Animal bones were scattered all around, many had been gnawed by something with very sharp teeth, leaving grooves in the bone.

  Mistral turned in a slow circle, scanning the sheer cliffs for the nest. After a third examination she saw it, an innocuous looking bundle of twigs perched high up on a rocky outcrop with a wall of sheer rock continuing above it up to the rugged summit. Mistral studied the site carefully. The gargoyles had chosen well. The jutting outcrop of rock it rested on provided good protection from below and she couldn’t see any natural ledges or formations that would allow her to approach from the side. Mistral frowned then shrugged. She would just have to climb up take a closer look.

  She watched the site closely for any signs of life. Her task would be easier if she could destroy the nesting pair before attempting to climb up and retrieve any eggs. After several minutes Mistral came to the conclusion that the pair were probably out hunting. It looked like her day was going to be long – not only was the climb going to be awkward, she would have to hang around to finish off the gargoyles before the Contract was completed.

  Cirrus moved restlessly around her, pulling against the reins she held tightly in her hand. He could smell the sulphuric odour of the gargoyles and it was making him nervous.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she murmured soothingly to him, rubbing his nose reassuringly. He butted her with his iron hard head, nearly knocking her over. ‘Alright boy,’ she smiled. ‘I get the message. I’ll get on with it then we can go.’

  She took off her heavy cloak, spreading it over Cirrus’ back and rump to keep him warm. Removing her saddlebag and tying her reins up onto the front of the saddle, she let him wander around the small plateau. He promptly retreated to the side furthest away from the nest, his ears twitching nervously.

  Mistral pulled out the items she had brought with her from her saddlebag, moving quickly as the cold air began to make her shiver. Yanking on the fingerless gloves and looping the rope over one shoulder and around her chest she rolled up the now empty saddlebag and stuffed it inside her fur-lined jerkin. She would use that to put any eggs in from the nest. Leaving her tinder box and medical kit at the base of the cliff she deliberated for a moment before leaving her crossbow as well, it would only hamper her during the climb. Mistral began to walk slowly along the rockface, looking up for a suitable route for her climb while she ran over her plan in her mind.

  Her plan was simple. Climb up, collect any eggs, get down, hang around and pick off the gargoyles when they returned then shoot the nest with a flaming bolt and leave. Easy.

  As she walked along the base of the cliff directly beneath the gargoyle nest a small horizontal crack caught her eye. It was no wider than her hand but it gave a good starting point. Mistral studied the craggy rockface above her, she thought she could make out a couple of small splits and fissures she could use and further up there was a wider split in the rock that travelled up for quite a distance. She had her route; it was time to climb.

  Stepping up she pushed her right boot into the small crack she had spotted and turned it until she felt solid contact under her heel. Pushing her weight down she thrust herself upwards, reaching out with both hands at the same time to jam her fingers into a smaller crack higher up. Mistral paused, supporting her body weight on her right heel while she scanned the rocks around her for more holds. Up to her left, just beyond her reach, was the vertical split she had seen from the ground. It spread upwards and widened out before narrowing again at its end, like an elongated tear drop.

  Swinging her dangling left leg up Mistral quickly released her left hand and thrust her foot into the gap where her hand had been. Using the momentum of the movement she pushed herself off the rockface and flung herself towards the small opening, her left hand reaching claw-like for a hold. She slammed into the rock, knocking the breath from her lungs. Ignoring the pain she instantly rammed her hand into the narrow split, curling her fingers into hooks for greater grip. Her feet swung beneath her, scrabbling for purchase against the rock. Pushing her toes against the rough surface, Mistral balanced her weight more equally and lifted herself up fractionally, allowing her to slide her right arm into the crack above her left hand. Wedging her arm more securely to take her weight she twisted and shifted her body sideways, dragging herself up into the crack until she was squeezed between the two faces of rock. Breathing hard, she paused for a moment and rested her head back against the hard rock, gathering her energy for the difficult climb ahead.

  Pressing her back and hands against one face she braced her feet against the other side and pushed her body up, walking her feet upwards to repeat the procedure, scraping her back painfully against the harsh surface of the rock with each push. She rested again at the highest point where the split in the rock became too narrow for her to continue climbing in this way. Her hamstrings ached from the effort. She could feel blood stinging in the grazes on her back. While she rested she looked out across the plateau, trying to gauge how far she had climbed. She could see Cirrus, a long way below, moving restlessly at the base of the cliff opposite her. Quickly she scanned the skies. There was no sign of any gargoyles flying back to the nest yet. Mistral didn’t think they would attack something as large as Cirrus but it worried her that if they did, she would be powerless to stop them. Permitting herself one last glance down at her horse, she focussed her attention upwards again, twisting her head awkwardly so that she could see the nest above her.

  Mistral studied the rock on either side of her carefully, looking for any suitable hand or toe holds. A small ledge, really only a jagged lip of rock, stretched away in front of her. If she could use that to climb, it would take her to the right, directly underneath the nest. Taking a deep breath, she tensed her body, preparing to push herself out of the vertical crack. With no momentum to help her, Mistral knew she would have to rely on her own strength to perform the move. She felt her legs tremble slightly from the strain of supporting her body weight and knew it was now or never. Sucking in a deep breath, Mistral pushed off from the rockface and flung herself into space, twisting her body round to face the rock as she hurtled through the air.

  Her fingers grabbed at the tiny ledge, locking mechanically around the cold stone. Her body crashed into the hard rock below the ledge, winding her. She was suddenly glad of the cumbersome rope wrapped around her chest absorbing some of the impact. Mistral dangled there for a moment while she recovered her breath then pushed the balls of her feet flat against the rock and used the friction to support her body weight. Using the rope as a buffer between her and the rock Mistral began to haul herself up, trying to boost herself up onto the ledge. The move cost her strength and she cursed when there was nothing above the ledge for her to grab. She dropped back down and swung from the ledge by just her hands once more. The muscles in
her arms began to scream from the effort of supporting her weight. Realising that she would fall if she stayed there much longer, Mistral began to move slowly sideways along the vertical edge. She tried to take some of the strain off her arms by pushing her feet flat against the rockface and shuffling across, all the time examining the stretch of rock between her and the gargoyle’s nest for any suitable holds. Her hands began to ache from the strain and her fingertips had gone numb. She paused for a moment, pushing her bodyweight into her feet to rest her hands and pressed her sweating forehead to the rock, forcing deep breaths of air into her lungs. After a few seconds she felt better and lifted her head up, to begin searching the rockface for holds once more.

  There, directly above her, how could she have missed it? A series of tiny faults in the rock created a clear pathway upwards. She studied them closely, her hands screaming from the tension. The cracks were too small for her whole hand. She would have to climb up using just her fingers and toes.

  Mistral lifted herself up slightly, resting her forearms on the narrow ridge of rock to take the burden off her hands and flexed her stiff fingers, forcing blood into the numb tips. Taking a deep breath she braced herself to thrust her body up above the ledge once more. Ignoring the tired ache in her arms and shoulders she gathered all her strength and thrust her body upwards, leaving the security of the ledge and forcing herself up into the thin air.

  The force of her upward motion quickly slowed and her body began to slide back down the rock. Her outstretched fingers scrabbled desperately at the cracks passing beneath her fingertips. Suddenly her right forefinger snagged in a flaw. Reflexively she hooked her finger into the gap, locking it in before her falling bodyweight could drag it out again. Her body slammed flat against the rock, leaving her hanging precariously while she ran her left hand frantically over the rugged surface for another hold. With a huge wave of relief her finger suddenly poked into a crack large enough. Forcing her finger in more securely she clung to the hard surface, her heart hammering with adrenalin and her muscles shaking from exertion. Mistral breathed deeply and her heart began to slow. She realised that she felt no fear, no thrill at the danger, only the pain of physical effort and iron determination to succeed.