The Spook 9 - Slither's tale

by Joseph Delaney

  Quickly I pulled back the door of the stall and, seizing the bridle, led the first of the horses out. ‘Take this one!’ I said, passing it over to Susan.

  ‘What about the cart and our trunks?’ she complained. ‘All my best clothes are inside.’

  ‘We haven’t time to get them, Susan. Our lives are at risk,’ I snapped, turning my back on her.

  It was the work of just a few moments to lead out two more horses – piebald like the first – from their stalls. I was just about to get a fourth mount when I heard someone crossing the wet flags and approaching the stable door behind us.

  My heart began to pound in my chest. I was terrified. What if it was another of the fierce Kobalos like the beast who had attacked Susan? What chance would I have against something like that? For a moment I panicked completely and was ready to run and save myself. Then, with a sense of shame, I thought of Susan and Bryony. How could I leave them?

  So I took a deep breath to steady myself, turned, and gripped the knife in my belt more tightly.

  To my surprise, coming towards me was one of the fierce women who had taken me up to the bath house where I’d found Slither. She was carrying a club and I saw anger and purpose in her eyes. With a trembling hand I tugged the knife from my belt and pointed it towards her. The sight of it brought her to a stop about five paces short of me.

  I feared the club she wielded, but I could see that my blade scared her more. I took a step towards her as if I meant to attack; she took a step as well – backwards, away from me.

  ‘Susan, take the horses outside!’ I shouted, keeping myself between the slave woman and my sister.

  Twice Susan fumbled with the reins but managed to lead the three piebald mares out into the yard. I followed, backing slowly and warily, never taking my eyes off the woman who held the cudgel. Now she was matching me step for step and I thought I saw a new determination in her eyes.

  Her face was criss-crossed with scars, as were her arms. A slave’s rearing and training were effected with the bite of a blade – so Slither had told me. No doubt I would face the same when I became a slave myself.

  I tried a new tactic. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ I suggested, forcing a smile onto my face. ‘You don’t have to stay here and be mistreated. Escape with us!’

  She did not reply, answering my words with a scowl. Suddenly I understood. If she allowed me to escape with the horses, she would be punished – perhaps even killed. She feared her masters more than she did me. But now I was out in the yard, and I had to protect my family.

  ‘The gate! Lead them to the gate!’ I shouted at Susan, pointing towards it.

  The slave was still matching me step for step but had not yet attacked. Then I heard more female voices. Other slaves were running towards us – including their leader, the woman with the torch.

  ‘I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die here!’ Susan screamed. ‘What did we do to deserve this? I wish I were back at the farm!’

  I knew that it was all over now: Susan was correct – we would probably die here. But I had no intention of betraying my own terror and despair. Why give them the satisfaction?

  I raised the blade to show that I would not go down without a fight.

  The woman with the club held it aloft and ran straight towards me. I was scared but desperate, and as she brought down the club, intending to brain me, I slashed at her arm with the dagger.

  The blade cut into her forearm. She screamed and the club dropped from her hand. Now she was looking at me with pain-filled eyes, while blood dripped from her arm onto the flags. For a moment it halted the others in their tracks. But then they began to move forward again.

  Where was Slither? I wondered. Had he managed to rescue poor Bryony?

  THIRTY-NINE KOBALOS WARRIORS faced me in the cellar. Thirty-nine warriors between me and the human child I had come to claim. They wore armour but were without helmets, as was customary on such occasions. The hair on their faces was long and obscured their mouths.

  Then there was that most dangerous opponent: the pigtailed Shaiksa assassin who now held a blade to Bryony’s throat.

  For a moment the room became almost totally silent; all that could be heard was the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. Then, with a roar of anger, a warrior charged towards me, lifting a huge double-edged sword, ready for the kill.

  I gave no ground, moving only at the very last second. I stepped to the right, ducked under the descending blade and struck out sideways with my sabre. My blade bit into his neck and severed the spinal column so that my would-be killer fell stone dead at my feet.

  Then I slowly flexed the fingers of my left hand so that the knuckles cracked, and then, with a wide, cruel smile, reached into my coat and withdrew my second blade, a dagger, so that now I faced my enemies with a sharp weapon in each hand.

  ‘Give me what is rightfully mine. Give me what I demand. Do it quickly and I may let some of you live!’ I shouted, amplifying my voice so that the dishes rattled and the knives and forks danced on the table-tops.

  I had used those words as a distraction – because immediately, without waiting for a reply, I leaped up onto the nearest table. Then I was racing across the table-tops towards the fireplace, scattering silver dishes and golden goblets with my feet, all my will directed towards one end: to prevent the assassin crouching over the child from slaying her.

  To control the assassin while dashing through my enemies was not easy. Shaiksa assassins are trained in a multitude of mind disciplines and can sometimes resist even the will of a mage.

  Thus, even as I jumped down from the final table, he began to slice the blade up towards the child’s throat. The blindfold had fallen from her eyes, and she shrieked as it approached her. But I struck out with the hilt of my own blade, driving it hard into the temple of my opponent so that he fell backwards, stunned, the weapon falling from his hand.

  It did not pay to kill such a being wantonly. The Shaiksa never forget, and even as one lay close to death, his dying mind could reach out over a great distance to tell his brothers the name and location of his slayer. So it was pragmatism, not mercy, that had guided my hand.

  I snatched up the child. She screamed as I lifted her, but I used the mage skill called boska: adjusting the chemical composition of the air in my lungs, I breathed quickly into her face and she fell instantly into a deep coma.

  Then I turned back to face my enemies, who were approaching me with weapons drawn, faces filled with fury. I began to increase my size, simultaneously using my will to hurl into their faces a twitching pulse of naked fear so that, as I grew, their eyes rolled in their sockets and their mouths opened in dismay.

  Then, with one final effort of will, I reached out with my mind and extinguished the thirteen torches that lit the subterranean banquet hall. It was instantly plunged into darkness, but through my mage eyes I could still see: for me, the room was lit by a silver spectral light. Thus I was able to escape the melee, passing safely through my enemies.

  I had almost reached the door when I sensed a threat behind me. It was the Shaiksa assassin. He had recovered quickly and, unlike the warriors, was resisting my magic. Now he was racing towards me, twirling a blade in his left hand and a war-axe in his right. Every fibre of his being was focused upon slaying me.

  Had it been possible, I would have stopped him using minimal force. In combat, one usually has options to choose from in order to counter an attack. But such was the ferocity of his assault and his determination to end my life that I had only one chance and was forced to employ it to save myself.

  I ducked below his first blade, but I knew that I could not escape the second: this was arcing downwards towards my head, threatening to sever it from my neck. So I pierced the assassin’s heart with my own blade. The effect was instantaneous – the axe dropped from his nerveless fingers, reaching the ground fractionally before his dead body.

  With this victory I had saved my life, but I had changed it for ever. In killing the High Mag
e, I had made myself an outlaw in the eyes of the Triumvirate; but in killing the assassin I had directed the wrath of his brotherhood onto my head. They would seek vengeance and hunt me to the ends of the earth until I too was dead.

  I ran into the yard not a moment too soon. Nessa and Susan had brought three horses out of the stables. Nessa was holding a knife uncertainly, trying to ward off four purrai who were converging on her. Susan was screaming hysterically.

  But then I noted a fifth slave. She was cradling her arm, which was bleeding profusely. So Nessa had shown some courage and got at least one blow in! Another few moments, however, and it would have been all over. I ran towards them, and the other purrai shrieked and fled back towards the stables.

  I glanced quickly at the three piebald mares – none were the mounts we had brought with us to the tower. In one respect that was good because these were shod in the Kobalos way, with wide shoes that afforded a better grip and prevented them from sinking into all but the very softest fresh snow. The rest was bad – very bad. All were saddled but they lacked saddlebags and provisions. There was no grain for the horses. All they carried was the customary two small sacks of oscher, which could be used as emergency food for them. It was made of oats with special chemical additives that could sustain a beast of burden for the duration of a long journey. Of course, afterwards the horse would die and oscher was therefore only used as a last expedient. But what choice had Nessa given me?

  With a curse, I leaped up onto the back of the nearest horse and draped the unconscious form of the child over the pommel.

  ‘Thank God!’ Nessa cried, but even now warriors might be running to lower the portcullis in order to prevent our escape from the courtyard. I pointed towards the gateway and urged my horse across the wet flags towards it. Nessa struggled to push her still-sobbing sister up onto one horse, then quickly mounted the other. Within moments, we were through the open gate and galloping down the cinder path into the whirling snowflakes.

  For a while we rode in silence, save for Susan’s infernal sobs, while I thought over the consequences of what I’d just done.

  ‘Why are we heading north?’ Nessa called out at last.

  I did not bother to reply. Heading north was the only chance of life I had. And it was a slim chance at that. I had just two remaining options. The first was to become a fugitive, fleeing my enemies for as long as I was able. The other was to journey straight to the source of the danger and confront it – to head for Valkarky.

  I GUIDED US north towards the best chance of survival that remained. In two hours we reached the ruins of a farmhouse. It was very old and had been overrun when the climate had changed more than two millennia earlier. At that time my people had pushed their boundaries further south, meeting little opposition from the small, weak kingdoms of divided humans.

  Now all that remained of it was two stark stone walls in the lee of a steep hillside. As I approached the ruin I sensed something, an unseen malevolence. I halted, prompting Nessa to ask, ‘Why do we stop? We must get inside!’ But I ignored her and raised my tail to search for the source of my unease. As I did so, a shower of small stones began to fall onto my shoulders and head.

  In a moment I had found it. It was a bychon, a spirit able to manipulate matter. Some were very dangerous and could hurl large boulders with great accuracy to crush a victim, but this one seemed relatively weak. I nudged it with my mind and it retreated to a dark corner. Then I whispered to it so that the purrai behind could not hear my words:

  ‘Soon we will be gone from here and then you may reclaim this place as your home. Do not behave in a way that will force me to drive you out permanently. Be still and keep hidden. Do you accept my offer?’

  No more pebbles fell around me, so I took the bychon’s silence as acceptance of my offer. I immediately made good use of the old wood that lay scattered about the site. First I constructed a lean-to to provide some shelter against the blizzard. Some of the remaining wood I ignited by force of will – a fire to provide life-giving warmth.

  In their sensible purrai clothes, the two older girls were quite well protected, but when I had snatched the child, she’d been readied for the blade and was almost naked. My use of boska had placed her in a deep coma, but it was dangerous to keep her in that condition too long. Thus I was forced to awaken her, whereupon she immediately began to shiver and cry weakly and I knew that she lacked the strength to survive for long.

  I am comfortable even in the coldest of temperatures so I could manage without my long black coat. However, it was not for warmth that I wore this garment; it was a mark of my vocation and status as a haizda mage, its thirteen buttons representing the thirteen truths that it has taken me many years of study to learn. I was reluctant to remove it, but I knew that the child would soon die without its protective warmth and felt bound by my trade with Old Rowler. So I took it off and wrapped her in it, handing her to Nessa, who then crouched with her close to the fire, whispering softly to her in reassurance.

  ‘Little Nessa,’ I asked gently, ‘where are our saddlebags? Where is the food that will keep us alive?’

  Nessa hung her head. ‘I was afraid,’ she said. ‘We just took the first horses we saw. I could hear Kobalos voices at the far end of the stables. Then those fierce women interrupted us – I threatened them with the blade and cut one, but they kept creeping closer. My sister was weeping with fear. I thought I acted in our best interests.’

  I could see that she was troubled by her actions. ‘Then I will do what I can,’ I said. ‘Do you still have my blade?’

  Nessa nodded and withdrew it from beneath her cape, handing it to me handle foremost. I accepted it with the hint of a smile and readied myself for what had to be done.

  I removed my boots and, wearing just the thin diagonal belt with the scabbards securing the two short blades, trudged up the hill into the teeth of the blizzard. In truth, I enjoyed the conditions; for a Kobalos, such a storm was exhilarating.

  Soon I reached a large plateau, an area of high moorland, and there dropped to all fours and began to run swiftly with my tail arched high above my back, seeking for likely prey.

  Little moved in that blizzard. Distantly, I sensed arctic foxes and rodents and a few hardy birds, but all were too distant. It was then that I came upon the wolves.

  It was a large pack, heading south with the storm wind. They would have passed by me at least three leagues to the west, but I exerted my will and summoned them; they hurried towards me, scenting easy prey. To give them more encouragement, I turned and began to flee before them, loping easily across the snow.

  Only when they were almost upon me did I increase my speed. Faster and faster I ran, until only the leader of the pack, a huge white wolf – sleek, heavily muscled and in its prime – could keep me in sight. Together we drew away from the remainder who, without their leader, soon tired of the chase and were left far behind, wandered aimlessly, howling up at the invisible moon.

  When the wolf was almost upon me, I turned to meet it. We both charged, fur against fur, teeth snarling, to roll over and over in the deep snow, gripping each other in a death-lock. The wolf bit deep into my shoulder, but to me the pain was nothing; with my own teeth, I savaged its throat, tearing away the flesh so that its blood spurted forth bright red upon the white snow.

  I drank deeply while the huge animal twitched beneath me in its death throes. Not a drop of the hot sweet thick blood did I waste. When my thirst was sated, I drew a blade and cut off the beast’s head, tail and legs and, walking upright, carried its body across my shoulders, back to the ruin of the farmhouse.

  Close to the fire, while the girls watched with wide eyes, I skinned and gutted the wolf, then cut it into small pieces and buried them in the hot embers to cook.

  All three sisters ate their fill that night, and only Susan complained, whimpering as she struggled to chew the half-burned, half-cooked meat. But she was quickly silenced by Nessa, who understood that I had given them the hope of life.

&nbs
p; Just before dawn I fed the fire with wood, and as I did so, Nessa awoke. She came to sit opposite me so that our eyes locked across the flames. Strangely she didn’t seem quite so skinny tonight. Her neck was particularly inviting and my mouth watered so that I was forced to swallow.

  ‘I don’t like it here,’ she said. ‘I keep getting a sense that something is watching us. I heard a noise too, like a small shower of falling stones. It could be a dangerous boggart. Perhaps this is its lair.’

  ‘What is a boggart?’ I demanded, filled with curiosity.

  ‘It’s a malevolent spirit. Some throw rocks or even big boulders. They are dangerous and can kill people.’

  ‘How would you deal with such an entity?’ I demanded.

  ‘I wouldn’t even try,’ Nessa said. ‘But far to the south across the sea it is rumoured that there are spooks – men who are capable of dealing with such things.’

  From what she described, it was likely that ‘boggart’ was the human term for bychon. But in all my years of learning I had never heard of their spooks. I wondered what kind of magic they used.

  ‘Well, worry not, little Nessa – a spook is not needed here. In dark places there are often invisible things that linger and watch. But you are safe with me.’

  ‘How much longer before we can travel on?’ she asked. ‘And why are we going north?’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll be able to leave at dawn tomorrow, or by the afternoon at the latest,’ I answered. ‘But without grain the horses won’t get far. There is oscher in the small sacks, which will give them strength for a little while – before it kills them. You’ll be eating horseflesh before the week is out. It’s easier to chew than wolf, so perhaps your sister will not complain so much. Eventually, in order to survive, we might have to eat one of your two sisters – Susan would be best because she’s bigger, with more meat on her bones.’