The Spook 9 - Slither's tale

by Joseph Delaney

  ‘I thank you for being truthful,’ Grimalkin said. ‘The history of your people is terrible – it explains why you steal human women and practise slavery. I oppose such a thing with every fibre of my being; however, I will keep my word regarding your sale of Nessa. I will leave your city secretly, but will join you again soon. First I will escort you on your journey south to deliver the younger sister to her aunt and uncle. Finally I will accompany you as you travel towards the Dendar Mountains. I wish to see the kulad of Karpotha where human females are traded.’

  Hearing her words, I could not prevent a sob from escaping my lips. For a moment I had thought that Grimalkin might stand up to Slither and demand that I be given my freedom to go with Bryony. Now I saw that she would honour her promise to him – a beast amongst beasts! These animals had killed their own females, and now I was to be delivered into their filthy hands.

  WE LEFT VALKARKY on good mounts, shod in the Kobalos manner so that they could walk more easily through the snow. Our saddlebags contained grain to feed the horses and, additionally, sufficient oscher to meet any emergencies. We also had provisions of our own for the journey.

  There was no sign of the witch. She had done as she’d said and left Valkarky secretly, riding on ahead.

  The two purrai had stopped their sobbing at last, but they looked pale, their eyes downcast, evidently still in the grip of grief. I shook my head at their foolishness. What was done was done. There was no profit in dwelling on it. The minds of humans were indeed weak.

  At the gate the High Mage, Balkai, the most senior of the Triumvirate, said a bitter farewell to me. A poor loser, he was scowling as we parted ways. I knew that he had no love for haizda mages; he was made uneasy by the fact that we worked alone, far from the city, and thus beyond his scrutiny and control.

  ‘You ride away an apparent victor,’ he said, leaning close and whispering into my right ear so that those in attendance could not hear. ‘Your shakamure magic may have helped you to survive a little while longer, but your days are numbered.’

  ‘I did not use my magic in the arena,’ I replied truthfully. ‘However, before I arrived here I used it quite legally in order to reclaim my purrai. It is my right. It is an expression of what I am!’

  ‘We cannot forget what you have done – you haizdas must be taught a lesson. It is nothing personal – just an exercise of power to maintain our rule. Eblis, foremost of the Shaiksa, will come after you; he will be armed with the Kangadon, the Lance of Power.’

  ‘The trial has exonerated me and allowed me to go free, with my purrai acknowledged as my own. In sending an assassin after me you act illegally!’ I hissed defiantly.

  ‘Listen well, fool,’ Balkai continued, his mouth still close to my ear. ‘We the Triumvirate always act in our own best interests. We make, shape and break the law when necessary. I wish you a safe journey until you die.’

  I bowed and smiled sarcastically. ‘I thank you for your kind solicitations, Lord. After I have killed Eblis, I will hang his ugly head from the tallest branch of my ghanbala tree. It is early spring in my haizda and the crows will be hungry. They consider eyeballs a great delicacy.’

  Then, without another glance at him, I mounted my horse and rode with Nessa and Bryony away from Valkarky. I felt the eyes of the High Mage boring into my back. He was seething with anger and his discomfort made my heart sing.

  In truth, I had hoped to ride away from the city bathed in goodwill, able to put the unpleasantness of my visit behind me. But some people cannot let things go, and Balkai seemed determined to have one last attempt to end my life.

  Eblis was the leader and most formidable of the Shaiksa assassins. He was known as He Who Cannot Be Defeated. The order advanced their knowledge each time one of their brotherhood died in combat, his dying thoughts communicating the manner of that demise. Some of them would also have studied my fight in the arena; by now they would be well versed in my style of fighting and might have detected a weakness, unknown even to me, which they might exploit.

  Using powerful magic, they had created a dangerous weapon, the Kangadon, also known as the Lance of Power or the Lance That Cannot Be Broken. Its other name is the King Slayer, for it had been used to kill the last King of Valkarky: his immense strength and formidable magical defences had proved inadequate against such a weapon. There were many rumours about this blade, but none other than a Shaiksa had ever set eyes upon it, let alone witnessed it in action.

  There was nothing I could do but deal with the threat when it came, so I thrust the problem from my mind and led the sisters south. I would try to keep my promise and return the younger purra to her aunt and uncle. There was no point in telling the two girls about the new danger. If I died before parting ways with them, they would be returned to Valkarky – either to be eaten or to face a lifetime of slavery.

  The wind was blowing from the south with a promise of spring, and on the fifth day we entered a forest of tall pines. Amongst them was a scattering of deciduous trees, their stark branches already softened with new green shoots.

  As evening approached, we made camp and soon I had a fire going and was heating soup for the purrai, its aroma steaming up into the cold crisp air. They seemed subdued and deep in thought, so I left Nessa stirring the liquid, watched by the hungry Bryony, and decided to go hunting. My needs were different. I needed blood and raw meat.

  The snow was thin on the ground, with tussocks of grass showing through. However, it was deep enough to show fresh tracks, and soon my belly was rumbling with hunger as I closed in on my prey. It had already gone to ground, but its shallow burrow offered no protection and I reached in and seized it by the tail. It was an anchiette, fully mature and about as long as my arm. Its blood was warm and sweet, and I drank my fill before picking the delicate meat from its skinny ribs. Finally I chewed, crunched and swallowed its tasty leg-bones.

  My hunger somewhat assuaged, I turned to retrace my steps. It was then that I noticed something carved into the trunk of a nearby tree.

  It had been gouged into the bark quite recently, and I examined it closely, tracing its shape with my forefinger. It was the simple depiction of a pair of scissors. Why should anyone wish to carve such a thing here? I wondered. Was it a marker so that others might follow?

  And then I remembered that the witch assassin had a pair of scissors in a leather sheath. Had she carved that symbol, and if so, why?

  Grimalkin had said that she would escort us south and then on to the slave kulad, but this was the first sign that she might be somewhere close.

  Again, I wondered if I could trust the witch. Why did she not reveal herself? Puzzled, I walked back to our camp.

  The next day, after the purrai had eaten, I removed the overshoes of the horses and we continued on our way south.

  Two days later we came to a temperate valley. Sheltered from the northern winds, it had its own micro-climate. The deciduous trees now outnumbered the conifers, and their branches were already covered in fresh green leaves. The snow had melted here, making the ground squelchy, and in places our mounts churned it to soft mud.

  The setting sun was bright, shining into our eyes out of a clear sky. Birds sang overhead, insects droned, and we rode along slowly, looking for a place to camp.

  Suddenly everything became unnaturally quiet.

  The birds ceased their spring songs. Even the insects fell silent. All that could be heard was the breathing of the horses and the slow rhythm of hooves on the soft ground.

  Then I understood the reason why.

  Directly ahead was a large solitary oak tree. It was gnarled, black and twisted, all life driven from it by the cold of the winter. Beneath that tree the Shaiksa waited. He was sitting astride a black stallion; a long lance, which he gripped with a black leather gauntlet, was angled back to rest easily against his shoulder. He was clad in black armour of the highest quality; plate lay across plate, sure to turn aside the strongest blade. He also wore a helmet with a lowered visor so that only the throat wa
s truly vulnerable. Balkai had been true to his word: here was the assassin he had promised to send against me.

  I could not see his eyes. It always bothers me when I cannot gaze into the eyes of an enemy. I feel at a disadvantage.

  The neck of the assassin was adorned with a triple necklace of skulls; some, though incredibly small, were human. The Shaiksa used magic to shrink the skulls of their defeated enemies; thus they were able to decorate themselves with many such signs of victory without impeding their movements. The number of such adornments told me that I was indeed gazing upon Eblis, the most deadly of all the Shaiksa Brotherhood. The lance he held was the Kangadon, which he had used to kill the last King of Valkarky nine centuries earlier.

  I heard the sound of hooves behind me as the sisters wisely moved their mounts out of the way of the expected attack.

  Taking the initiative, I drew two blades and charged towards Eblis, my mount gathering speed as it pounded over the muddy ground. So sudden was my assault that the Shaiksa didn’t have time to bring up the lance properly. I was upon him before he could target me.

  My blades flashed in the sunlight and there was the clash of metal on metal. The one in my right hand found the join between two armoured plates on Eblis’s chest. I thrust it upwards into the gap and it jammed. Whether it had penetrated the flesh was impossible to say. But the blade in my left hand shattered against the Shaiksa’s armour and I tossed away the hilt of the broken weapon. As I turned my mount, ready to attack again, I drew the sabre.

  But this time I lacked the advantage of surprise. Eblis was ready for my attack and he urged his own horse forward too, the sharp tip of the Kangadon aimed straight at my heart. I twisted in my saddle, ensuring that the point of the lance missed me, but I had no opportunity to strike a blow of my own.

  We brought our horses round and thundered towards each other again, the assassin once more lowering the lance into a horizontal position, his horse kicking up a spray of mud behind him.

  However, I focused my concentration, and now I created a magical shield identical to the one that had thwarted the hyb’s sharp talons. It was small and bright, gleaming in the air, no bigger than a hand’s span, but I positioned it precisely with my mind and held it firm so that the lance, despite its magical properties, might be deflected.

  But at the moment of contact I suddenly understood how Eblis had defeated the King of Valkarky so long ago. The king would no doubt have used a magical shield even more powerful than my own, but at the moment of his death he must have recognized the true power of the Kangadon: nothing could deflect it from its target.

  And so it was now. The tip of the lance went through my shield like a knife through butter and sought out my heart. I was a fraction of a second away from death. Only one thing remained for me to do; I could not deflect the Kangadon, so I had to evade it.

  I twisted in the saddle, avoiding its tip by the thickness of a butterfly’s wing, and threw myself off my horse. I absorbed some of the impact by tucking my arms and legs in close to my body and rolling forward as I met the ground. It was soft after the melting of the winter’s snow and that helped to cushion the blow, but nevertheless, the air was punched from my lungs. The sabre flew out of my hand and I lay sprawled on the ground while my deadly opponent quickly turned his horse and charged at me again.

  I managed to sit up, but I was befuddled, struggling to clear my head after my heavy tumble. Eblis had almost reached me, the tip of the Kangadon still aimed unerringly at my heart. I thought my end had come, when suddenly I heard the drumming of other hooves and something rushed towards him from my left.

  It was a white horse and rider. Now they were between me and the assassin, and they met the force of his charge. The white horse whinnied and toppled over, throwing its rider into the air like a rag doll. I glimpsed her face as she spun over and over before hitting the ground hard.

  It was little Nessa. She had tried to save me and had now paid the price.

  Her mount whinnied again, and rolled over before heaving itself upright. I glanced towards Nessa. She was lying face down and was not moving. Her death had been quick and kind – far better than the one she would have faced at the hands of the Shaiksa once I had been dispatched. She was the luckiest of the three sisters. The tawny death was quick, but it was extremely painful to undergo, with hot bubbles popping inside your stomach and intestines, and your flesh melting from within.

  I realized I had failed to keep my promise to Old Rowler. Once I was dead, the youngest child would be slain too, her throat cut by this assassin. She would suffer the same death they had originally intended for her back in the tower. I had merely delayed the inevitable. I felt angry and bitter at the prospect of my defeat. It had all been for nothing.

  Eblis brought his horse round in a slow arc, his lance at the ready. My head was clearing now and I looked around for my sabre. I was unable to deflect the blade, but at least I could die with a weapon in my hand. But my legs simply refused to work: all I could do was struggle up onto my knees.

  The Shaiksa raised his visor and smiled at me. He wished me to gaze upon the face of the one who would slay me. I did not waste any words and kept my expression impassive. Inside, I was seething with anger at the thought that Balkai would get his way. I had proved myself in the trial; in sending this assassin, he had showed no honour. He was unscrupulous and corrupt.

  Although I knew that I would die here, I wanted to reach my sabre: I would do my best to hurt Eblis so that he would always remember our encounter. One had to die sometime, and to fall to the greatest of the Shaiksa assassins – He Who Cannot Be Defeated – was a worthy death.

  He charged again. I twisted away, but the tip of the lance pierced my right shoulder and Eblis jerked it upwards violently, lifting me off my feet. For a moment I was helpless and in terrible pain, but my weight, in addition to the length of the lance, meant that he could not hold me aloft for more than a few seconds. The moment he was forced to lower it, I slid down the lance, hit the ground and rolled to the side.

  When I got to my knees again, blood was running down my arm and dripping into the mud. In moments I would surely be dead, but still I would not give up, and I began to crawl across the mud towards my sabre. It seemed a long way away; at any moment Eblis might charge again and transfix me with his lance – maybe this time through the heart.

  As I made my way painfully along, I kept my eyes on him. He was staring at me but did not urge his mount forward. Everything was very still and quiet. Then I realized that he was not looking at me after all. I risked a quick backward glance.

  Behind me, slightly to my left, I saw another rider on a stallion as black and powerful as Eblis’s. I knew that rider. It was a purra.

  It was Grimalkin, the human witch assassin.

  GRIMALKIN WAS HOLDING the necklace of bones that she wore around her neck. Hers must be bones from the hands of her defeated enemies rather than the shrunken skulls worn by Eblis. She was tapping and stroking them in some mysterious ritualistic fashion. As I watched, she released the bones and drew a long dagger from one of her scabbards, then approached me, her horse stepping delicately across the soft mud.

  ‘Get up off your knees, Slither,’ she commanded. ‘Kill your enemy with this. Kill him before he kills you. Never give in! Never surrender!’

  She threw the dagger towards me. It spun over and over through the air, but I reached up with a cry of pain and caught it by the hilt.

  There was something odd about that weapon. The moment I lifted my tail it told me that the blade was crafted from a silver alloy. My eyes told me something even more astounding.

  The hilt was crafted in the shape of a skelt’s head, and its eyes were two rubies. It was the image of our unborn god, Talkus. As I watched, the ruby eyes shed tears of blood that dripped onto the mud close to my feet to mingle with my own. It was without doubt a blade of power. I could feel the magical force emanating from it.

  Grimalkin smiled and backed her horse away from me. Filled wi
th new hope and strength, I got to my feet. Eblis had been gazing warily at Grimalkin, but now, as she moved away, his attention came back to me – his target.

  He charged straight towards me. I took a deep breath and stood my ground, bringing the whole of my concentration to bear upon the task at hand. As the tip of the lance came within range I stepped to one side to avoid being trampled by the stallion, lifted the blade and parried the tip of the spear.

  To my astonishment, the blade did not break. It deflected the lance and scraped along its whole length, sending up a shower of sparks. When it reached the Shaiksa’s gauntlets and found his hands, he cried out in shock. He released the Kangadon, and it spun upwards out of his grasp, turning over and over in the air.

  Then, in a moment of whalakai – the perception that comes to a haizda mage but rarely – I was aware of every nuance of the situation in a flash of insight.

  I knew what I must do! I sliced sideways, my arm moving almost too fast to be seen, and struck the spinning lance with my blade.

  The Kangadon split into two pieces.

  Thus the Lance That Cannot Be Broken was no more.

  But it was not for nothing that Eblis had survived and prevailed as an assassin for over two thousand years. The lance was destroyed and he was wounded, but he summoned his strength and attacked once more. This time he wielded two more long blades as he attempted to ride me down.

  Once again I struck out with the skelt blade, and then spun away quickly to avoid being trampled. His horse galloped onwards, nostrils snorting steam into the chill air. But Eblis fell, hit the ground hard, and lay there without moving.

  I approached and looked down at my enemy – but, to my own surprise, I did not deal the final blow. It was not a conscious decision. Something within me had chosen another way for this to end. I waited in silence, still gripping the blade. After many minutes Eblis rolled onto his stomach and struggled to his feet. His hands were empty of weapons. He had lost them in the fall. Nevertheless I waited patiently while he retrieved them from the mud, which had been churned up by the galloping hooves.