by Tim Stead
He had to make the duke shoot, but he had to make sure that he shot at something that wasn’t there. There were many things here that would give away his position. If he lifted one of the wall rugs, if he picked up an object to look beneath it, if he trod on something that creaked, or crushed something beneath his invisible foot – if he did any of these, the duke would have his target.
He looked down at his feet. There was a shirt on the floor, a casually discarded trap just six inches from where he thought his right foot was. If he hadn’t stopped just when he had…
He crouched down and looked about him. Now that he’d worked it out it was simple enough. He would give the duke his target. He eased himself down to the floor so that he sat with his feet still beside the crumpled shirt. He imagined that the duke would have concealed himself somewhere along the same wall as the bed head. There was probably a dressing room behind one of those rugs, or even a privy.
He watched the wall for movement and slowly lifted one foot and set his heel down on the shirt.
He heard the crossbow string let go, heard the bolt smack into the opposite wall, showering the floor with plaster. One of the rugs had twitched when the duke had shot his bolt, and now Francis had him. He jumped up, all caution discarded. It would take Falini only a few seconds to fit a second bolt, and in that time he had to get to the man and kill him.
The second bolt caught him in the arm and spun him round.
Even as he fell, even as the pain ripped through his mind, banishing reason, he wondered how Falini had managed to reload his bow so quickly. But of course he hadn’t. Falini’s crossbow had a double string, two bolts, a second shot. He’d heard of such weapons, spoken to men who’d claimed to have built them, but he’d never seen one.
He hit the floor and rolled, knowing that it wasn’t enough, but it was something. He was bleeding, and as soon as his blood left him it stained the floor, plain to see, but it was still dark, and he was still invisible. That should be enough.
He mastered the pain. The bolt had struck his left arm above the elbow, and that was a good thing. It had passed right through his arm and out the other side, missing the bone. He still had his blade and the arm that wielded it, and now he was back on his knees.
Falini came out from behind his curtain. He had discarded the crossbow and now he was carrying a sword which he held out in front on him like a blind man’s cane.
Francis was light headed, dizzy from the pain of the wound in his arm, but he made it back onto his feet and stood, silent and unmoving as the duke approached.
“Are you there, assassin?” Falini asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Did you think I was afraid of you?”
The man’s arrogance was stunning. Falini assumed that he’d won, was gloating when as far as Francis could see the duke was still at a significant disadvantage. He waited, and Falini came closer, one careful step at a time. The sword swung to and fro, slowly.
The tip of the blade almost touched Francis, but he swayed back out of its path, and as soon as it swung away he stepped forwards with all the speed and force that he could muster, passing inside the arc of the blade and driving his own weapon as hard as he could into the duke’s belly.
He didn’t make the same mistake. He knew that a blade in the belly wasn’t a killing blow, not immediately. He stepped back and ducked as Falini’s sword ripped through the place he’d been a moment earlier. He had to admit the man was tough. A hole in the gut would put most men down in screaming agony, but Falini came at him again, blind to the danger. Francis tripped him. Once down the duke would never rise again. He kicked away the sword and brought his own weight to bear on the man’s chest.
“For the boy,” he said. “For Rubel.” He plunged his knife into Falini’s throat, his chest, over and over.
It was done. It was almost as though Francis woke up and found himself in pain in the middle of a bloody room lying across a corpse. He looked around. What to do now?
He was bleeding from his arm, so the first thing was to stop that. He didn’t want to leave a trail wherever he went. He tore strips from the shirt on the floor and bound up his wound, wincing as he tightened the bandage. It was awkward using one hand and his teeth, but he managed. It would do until he got home.
He stood up. Outside the guards were unaware that their lord was dead. They would discover him in the morning, Francis supposed. He dipped his fingers in the duke’s blood and went to the wall opposite the bed where the crossbow bolt was buried in the plaster. He wrote words, going back to the body to refresh his finger pen.
Blood for blood.
He signed it with a J.
39 The Pack
Pascha was angry again. It seemed a common state for her these days, and that made her angrier still. She wished that she had Narak’s confidence, his will to act, but that had always been Narak’s gift, while hers had been running away from the issues that frightened her.
Narak had been right again, though he couldn’t have known it when he made the decision to protect King Degoran. He had traced the trouble all the way back to Col Boran, to her own palace, and that meant that someone here was a traitor. That, she told herself, was the source of her anger.
Kirrith’s presence didn’t help. The dragon had always been an irritation, a superior presence, untrusting, secretive, but never quite hostile. She had never told anyone that she had found the great weakness in dragons, that they could be undone. The ancient god mages had never found it, and she longed to remove the smugness from Kirrith’s noble features.
The other dragons at least showed respect.
Things were building to a head. That was plain enough. There was the thing with Degoran, the murder of the Afaeli king and the outbreak of civil war, Berashi troops massing on the borders of Avilian and the thing with Shadow. Pascha had never believed that Shadow existed. She thought it was one of Sithmaree’s tall stories, invented to impress, but Pascha had seen the thing, heard it speak. She could not doubt it now.
One problem at a time.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come.”
It was Sheyani. She stepped inside. “They’re ready,” she said.
“All of them? They’re all here?”
“Every Durander in Col Boran, Eran. They have been waiting for this.”
Pascha stood and wrapped herself in a black cloak trimmed with silver. It had been a present from Caster, the sword master, who had said that she lacked clothes suitable for her high position, and she’d accepted the gift because she liked him. It was certainly impressive, having the weight and length to transform her gait into something graceful. She followed Sheyani down the steps to the great hall below.
Were there really so many?
Pascha had pretty much ignored the Duranders in Col Boran. They had come here to serve her, but she had always believed that she had no need of their petty gifts. She had not realised that their numbers had grown so much.
There were more than two hundred men and women in the hall, the majority of them draped in the colours of their diverse professions.
She stopped ten steps from the bottom and looked out over the crowd. They hushed, waiting for her to speak. Pascha had never been a great speaker. Not like Cain or Narak, who each in their own way could sway a crowd to their will. But this time she had taken Cain’s advice.
“Loyal Duranders,” she began. “Mages of the Seven Paths. Friends of Col Boran.” She could see them responding to her words, warming just as Cain had said they would. “I need your help.”
She could feel the ripple of interest go through them. Sheyani was right – they had been waiting for this, waiting for fifty years.
“You know what occurred in the roof garden three days ago. Josetin Esh Mulla Al Distari died, shot to death with a single arrow. What I have to tell you now is that Josetin was a traitor. He was involved in a plot to kill King Degoran of Avilian. He went to Golt for this purpose, and he impersonated Wolf Narak in order to get men to do his bi
dding.”
She watched them absorb this information. A susurrus of whispers filled the hall, then just as quickly faded away. Their attention came back to Pascha. Now they would be worried.
“I am confident,” she went on, “that none of you are to blame in this matter, and so I turn to you now. Josetin was suborned to this dark purpose by someone, or some thing, in Col Boran. I want you to find whoever is responsible, and bring the name to me.”
Now the crowd became animated. She could see and hear dozens of conversations erupt all over the hall. Voices were raised, arms waved. Pascha looked at Sheyani, who stood a few steps below her.
“Well at least they have something to do now,” Sheyani said.
Pascha smiled a lop-sided smile. “Aye, but do you think they’ll find whoever it is?”
Sheyani shrugged. “I do not know, Eran, but they will try their best. I would bet my life on that.”
One of the Duranders approached. He was an elderly man dressed in the orange robes of Belan Terak, a dream master. He bowed.
“Eran,” he said. “Do you require proof physical?”
“Dream Master, I require certainty. The dragons will give me all the proof I need.”
“As you say, Eran. So we must bring you the culprit alive. I understand.”
“Yes, Areshi, alive. There are questions to which I need the answers, and you may find that this malefactor answers to a higher power still, and I would know that name, also.”
The mage bowed again. “I will spread the word,” he said and turned away. Pascha looked at Sheyani again.
“Enough?”
“They know their task, Eran,” Sheyani said. “They will be about it with alacrity.”
“Very well, then. Will you join me for lunch? I want to talk about the Dalini girl again.”
“As you wish, Eran.”
Pascha led the way up the stairs away from the now animated mass of Duranders in the hall below, satisfied that she had set a sizeable power to catch her traitor. It was only a matter of time.
*
Mordo stood silently in the shadows at the back of the great hall and listened to the Duranders argue amongst themselves. They were a rabble, but he did not doubt they had impressive skills.
It was only a matter of time before they found him.
He slipped out of the door and made his way slowly back to his own offices. Now it seemed that he must plan his escape more quickly than he had hoped. First there was the threat of the Wolf, then Kirrith had been seen – a second dragon in Col Boran – and now she had set the Durander pack on his tail.
He was not unduly worried. The hunt would take a long time. He had covered his tracks well, and he had only one more thing he needed from Col Boran. He could afford to wait a little longer to see if an opportunity arose.
40 The Time
Callista had persuaded Sithmaree. It had not been easy. The Snake was quite adamant that she should not take Pascha’s test, she’d called it a death sentence, and they had argued for a day, but with a few words from Kirrith the matter was put to bed. And then there was Narak.
Callista had never spoken to the Wolf, and she had not thought to. He had shown no interest in her whatsoever but, after the incident with Shadow, Pascha and the dragon, he sought her out.
She had been to see Rodric, who was growing gradually easier with his bereavement, and was on her way back when she came across Narak sitting on a stone by the side of the road. She was surprised. She knew him, of course, in the sense that she had seen him and knew his face, but she did not think that the Lord of Col Boran would know her from any other hanger on.
“You are Callista Dalini,” he said. It was not a question, merely a statement to let her know that he knew who she was.
“My lord.” She stopped and bowed.
Narak slid off his rock and stood beside her. “We’ll walk,” he said. They walked, not exactly following the path that Callista had intended. She allowed Narak to lead her out of Col Boran in the general direction of the low hill where she had first met Bane.
“How is Sithmaree?” he asked.
“Well, my lord. A little troubled by my renewed desire to take the Eran’s test, but otherwise happy enough I think.”
“So how does it feel to be Shadow-chased?”
“Better than being uncle-chased, my lord,” she replied. It was a flippant reply, but Narak didn’t seem offended. He smiled.
“A fair answer,” he said. “To a silly question. You are not afraid?”
“I feel that nobody means me harm, my lord. Not Shadow, not the dragons, nobody at all.”
“It would be a mistake to trust everyone, Callista,” Narak said. “We are all in our own different ways motivated by duty, and duty can overwhelm kindness and friendship when the pinch comes.”
“I understand, my lord, but your own story says otherwise.”
“The fragments that you have heard will doubtless have been coloured by the popular pen, Callista. I am quite the slave of duty.” His words were serious, but there was a sparkle in his eye as he spoke, and she could not help but take a liking to him. She thought that he was like two men in one body. The serious Narak, the creature of legend, was old and burdened, wore his history like chains and his destiny like a sentence. The other Narak, the one trapped inside, was the same young man he had been so many centuries ago, a passionate, loyal, fierce young man.
“It is not entirely trust, my lord,” she said.
“Ah, yes, the dragon gift. How is it with you?”
“Erratic. It shines a light here and there, but mostly leaves me in the dark. It is never wrong, though.”
“And what does it tell you about me?”
She shrugged. “Nothing, my lord, but I do not fear you.”
“Perhaps you should. I am a famous monster, you know.” Callista had to smile at that, but her smile seemed to annoy Narak a little. He stopped and faced her. “This body is not who I am, Callista Dalini. It is who I once was.”
Abruptly the man before her became something else – a dragon-man-wolf thing that radiated power and presence. It was as though he filled the small world in which they stood. She stepped back, pushed away by the sheer force of it, but this was Narak, the real Narak. She had never seen any god in aspect before. She reached out and laid a hand on the scales of his arm. They were hard and smooth, like warm steel. His eyes, now shining and reptilian like a dragon’s, looked into hers. She looked down at his hands, at talons that could rip a man in two.
“Still no fear?” he asked, but it was a rhetorical question. Callista was not afraid. Narak resumed his human form, and Callista stepped back again. It was as though she could stand close to the dragon thing, but to be so near a man implied something else.
“I hope that I have not offended you, my lord,” she said.
Narak shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. “But tell me, why did you touch my arm?”
The only answer was the simple one. “I wanted to see what it felt like, my lord.”
“Nobody has ever done that before,” he said. “Not since I was made dragon kin, and precious few before that. There is some dragon gift in you even when you don’t sense it, Callista. Like Kirrith, I can feel the kinship.”
“I cannot,” Callista said. It was true. She felt no special bond with Kirrith or Bane, the only two dragons she had met. She was more drawn to Pascha and Sithmaree, and perhaps to Narak. If anything she was drawn to the Benetheon.
Narak looked back towards the palace. “It will come with time,” he said. “But I feel that time is growing short. It was like this before the second war. The storm clouds are gathering, but I cannot yet see the danger. Perhaps it is here, perhaps in Afael or Avilian, but when it breaks upon us we will all be swept up, you may rely on it.”
“War, my lord?”
Narak ignored her question. “When will you take the test, Callista?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Make it soon. We will need you soon.
” He shrugged off his prophetic mood and smiled again. “But come, there is still time. I will walk with you back to Sithmaree’s. We will talk of lighter things.”
And so they did, but on Sithmaree’s threshold he stopped again.
“There is one thing that is clear to me, Callista Dalini,” he said. “It is that we shall be friends and allies in whatever is to come.” He took her hand, and reaching into a pocket he placed something in it. Callista looked. It was a ring with a wolf’s head sigil. “If you need me, call me,” he said. “I will come if I can.”
41 The Killer
There was fighting in the northern fringes of the city. Displaced people were pushing south into Central and Dock Wards, carrying everything they could, some with hand carts, a few with horses and wagons. Looking north Francis could see a thin veil of smoke rising up from somewhere in Gate Ward.
It was not serious yet. There were a few skirmishes, the occasional raid into or out of the city, but neither side had secured an advantage.
It was about time he went to see the general.
He was careful on this walk through the city. In troubled times there was a fraying of law and order and some men sought to take advantage of the disarray. The last thing Francis wanted was to get into a situation with a street gang. He stopped on every corner and looked ahead, hurried between places of concealment, doorways and quiet alleys. He would only use his gift if he had to. The streets were almost deserted, and he saw only a few people, all of them showing the same nervous caution.
At the general’s house he was admitted at once. Now they knew him. He was ushered into the general’s presence – the reading room again. The general was a little more respectful this time, and rose to greet him, though the old man stopped short of shaking his hand.