The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams)

by Kirsten Jones

  They were out on the open ocean now, surrounded by a churning black mass of sea topped with glistening heads of white foam. The moon had not yet risen and the only light came from stars, clusters of bright pin-pricks that stretched endlessly over their heads in every direction. Faced with the vast emptiness that surrounded them, Mistral suddenly felt overwhelmed with a sense of her own insignificance. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, it didn’t matter who or what she was or even that she might die soon. All that mattered was this very second of being. She was acutely aware of a peculiar sensation of something falling into place, completing some part of her that she hadn’t even realised was lacking.

  The warship’s deck lifted sharply as it climbed a huge swell and dropped over the crest with a shuddering bang, knocking Mistral off balance and sending her crashing into Fabian. His hands were around her in an instant, holding her tightly. He looked down at her, his face bleached silver under the starlight, the expression in his black eyes unfathomable. Inexplicably, Mistral felt herself blush.

  ‘It’s no longer safe to stay on the bow,’ he said, raising his voice over the rushing wind.

  Mistral nodded wordlessly. He dropped his hands from her waist, leaving a burning imprint on her skin through the cotton of her shirt.

  Clutching onto the wooden balustrade to steady herself against the tilting motion of the warship, Mistral followed Fabian along the deck until they were opposite one of the masts. Fabian pointed to the space between the two masts. It was filled with coils of rope, bundles of tarpaulin, and a few barrels securely tethered to the wooden deck. Mistral nodded in agreement. It looked about the safest place to be. Staggering against the heaving motion of the ship, Mistral climbed over the barrels and slid down behind the bales of tarpaulin, grateful for the protection they offered from the wind and the noise of the crashing waves. A moment later Fabian followed her, jumping lightly over the bales into the small space next to her. Mistral was abruptly aware of his closeness. She could feel his body heat and even smell the scent of his skin, musky and intoxicating. She drew in a deep breath, trying to clear her reeling head.

  Fabian immediately looked at her, his face concerned.

  ‘Are you worried about Cirrus?’ he asked, misreading her reaction. ‘Don’t be, I secured him in a stall near the centre of the ship, the motion of the waves is less pronounced there.’

  Cirrus! She had forgotten about her horse and guilt abruptly swamped her.

  ‘How long will the crossing take?’ she asked, suddenly anxious for her horse.

  His face hardened as he responded to her question, ‘In a normal sailing ship,’ he laid a heavy emphasis on the word normal, ‘maybe four days, less with fair winds. This warship will have us in port by dawn.’

  So, they would reach The Desert Lands by dawn. Leaning her head back against the bale of tarpaulin she looked up at the stars, wondering vaguely if this was the last time she would ever see them. Suddenly she was grateful to have company on what could well be her last night alive but couldn’t help suspecting that Mage Grapple had ordered Fabian’s presence on deck for the duration of the crossing.

  She looked at Fabian; companion or guard? She frowned, ‘Why exactly are you up here with me and not with Mage Grapple and his army?’

  Fabian’s face tightened. He gazed pensively at the sky above them.

  ‘Eximius and I do not have the best relationship,’ he finally responded in a guarded voice.

  Mistral was instantly intrigued, ‘Tell me about Mage Grapple,’ she asked curiously, settling herself into a more comfortable position against the soft bale of tarpaulin.

  ‘I can only tell you as it is recorded in the Council’s library,’ he responded shortly.

  ‘That’ll do,’ she murmured, suddenly deeply tired. ‘I grew up hearing village stories of an invincible Mage warrior that single-handedly united the Isle so some perspective would be nice.’

  Fabian gave a derisive laugh and then began to speak softly, reciting the textbook history of Mage Grapple’s achievements. Mistral listened to the velvet sound of his voice. It blended perfectly with the rhythmical dull thudding of the waves. She felt her eyelids begin to close. The rocking motion of the ship was more predictable here, soothing. She was soon fast asleep.

  Mistral dreamt that she was standing alone on the burning desert sands. All around her dunes of dull gold rose and fell, stretching on and on to meet the blinding white sky at a distant, shimmering horizon. Overhead the scorching orb of the sun beat down mercilessly. A hot wind whipped the desiccated sand into her face and blurred her vision. Shielding her eyes from the stinging sand and sun, Mistral strained to see a dark shape moving towards her. Suddenly the image swam into sharp focus. Fabian De Winter was galloping towards her on Spirit, his face a hard mask of loathing. There was no mistaking the intention on his face or the naked hatred that gleamed out of his wild black eyes. He was going to kill her.

  Mistral woke with a gasp, her heart pounding in panic. Disorientated, she stared around wildly at the unfamiliar surroundings. Gradually her panic eased with the realisation that it had only been a dream and she was still on Mage Grapple’s warship. The intensity of the nightmare faded, leaving a bitter sense of irony at her finding relief in being on an enchanted ship carrying her towards her death.

  The stars had faded from the sky leaving it a dull, inky blue. It was nearly dawn. A heavy dew had fallen, depositing a shiny film of moisture over everything. Mistral felt strangely warm and comfortable, she breathed in deeply, enjoying the cool fresh air that also held a familiar musky scent. She looked around, momentarily disconcerted. Fabian had gone, but his scent lingered. Moving her arms to push herself upright Mistral realised that she was wrapped in his heavy travelling cloak. She pulled it off with a burst of irritation. Was that how he saw her? Someone who needed to be mollycoddled, like a child? She began to furiously bundle up Fabian’s travelling cloak and felt her annoyance abruptly slip away. For some unfathomable reason she didn’t seem to be able to remain angry with him for any length of time. Frowning to herself, Mistral mused that yesterday morning she would have been quite happy never to lay eyes on Fabian De Winter again.

  But what about now?

  She realised with a start that now she felt an odd urge to go and find him. Was she just missing the twins? Probably. Her thoughts turned to the twins. She was relieved they had not been able to make the journey. It was going to be hard enough finding the courage to ride out and face Mage Grapple’s army of warlocks without seeing their fear too.

  With a surprising calmness Mistral reflected that she was probably going to die in The Desert Lands. Taking stock of her life in light of this revelation, Mistral couldn’t think of a single reason to be sad. The woman who had raised her was dead and her husband had looked soon to follow. They would be spared the burden of mourning her passing. The twins … the Gemini … two halves of the same whole … they would always be alright so long as they had each other. The rest of the apprentices would mourn the death of their sister with the same brief respect each passing earned: a raised tankard in The Cloak and Dagger. But Cirrus … what would become of her hard-to-handle charger? If she died in battle and he survived, which she fervently hoped he would, who would be willing to take him home?

  Mistral sighed. There was only one person she could think of. She would have to ask though, and it was a big ask.

  Mistral quickly tied back her hair and picked up Fabian’s bundled cloak. Tucking it under her arm she climbed out over the bales of tarpaulin and onto the open deck. Away from the protection of the bales the early morning wind was cold. Mistral shivered and clutched Fabian’s thick cloak to her chest. Giving her legs a moment to adjust to the pitching deck, she picked her way carefully towards the bow to find her answer.

  Fabian was leaning against the rail, gazing out at the misty horizon. The breeze blew his dark hair away from his face and flattened his shirt to his body moulding the thin cotton to the lithe muscles across his chest and shoulders. Mis
tral’s feet stalled and her heart seemed to trip over itself. She drew in a deep breath and forced her feet to move again. The warship was moving more slowly now, the noise of the wind and waves quiet enough for him to hear her footsteps on the deck. He turned for face her; his expression relaxed, almost serene.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, holding his bundled travelling cloak out.

  He took it from her wordlessly, dropping it to the deck at his feet and turned back to look out across the still ocean once more. Mistral took a second deep breath. She didn’t want her voice to betray the emotion she felt and was pleased that when she spoke her voice was even and controlled.

  ‘If I die on the battle field, I want you to swear to me that you will take on Cirrus.’

  Fabian turned and looked searchingly at her, a small furrow creasing the pale skin between his eyebrows, ‘So you still intend to join the mercenaries and fight,’ he said finally.

  Mistral didn’t want to be drawn into that conversation again, instead she looked steadily into the deep blackness of his eyes.

  ‘I know you will respect his free spirit,’ she said sincerely, her voice breaking slightly despite her best efforts.

  Fabian smiled and his face instantly changed, he looked younger again, more carefree.

  ‘Like his mistress.’

  The sound of heavy footsteps moving up the deck made them both turn. Mage Grapple was striding towards them. He was dressed in full battle armour, a pair of curved swords glinted beneath his flapping cloak.

  ‘We will dock soon,’ he said without preamble. ‘I suggest,’ he went on, turning to face Mistral, ‘that you wait here until my army has disembarked.’

  Mistral hated being ordered to do anything but she had to agree that he was right. She was likely to end up trampled underfoot if she showed her face below decks before the warlocks had left.

  ‘De Winter,’ he turned abruptly to Fabian. ‘You and I will meet St Martine first then I will send a party to negotiate with Rufus. I want you in that party.’

  Fabian’s expression tightened but he nodded wordlessly.

  ‘If you are unsuccessful, we will have no choice but to fight –’

  Mistral’s dream came flooding back to her; Fabian riding at her with murder in his eyes.

  ‘However, I will brief my army thoroughly and stress that they are not to knowingly attack any Ri mercenaries.’

  Mistral realised that the Mage was speaking directly to her again. She managed a jerky nod but privately felt that any warlock that got the opportunity, knowingly or otherwise, would happily run her through in a heartbeat.

  ‘There will be enough bloodshed today without brothers of the Isle killing each other for an unnecessary cause.’

  A shadow flittered over Mage Grapple’s scarred face, as though something had saddened him, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving behind the usual stern expression on his grizzled face. Without another word to either of them he turned and made his way swiftly back along the deck. She watched his retreating back curiously, trying to remember the stories Fabian had told her last night.

  A voice shouted out from somewhere above them; a lookout high up on the mast. Land had been sighted.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Fabian said softly, gazing at the darkening line appearing on the misty horizon. He sighed and, picking up his travelling cloak then turned to face her.

  ‘Goodbye Mistral,’ his voice was barely above a whisper and before she could reply, he was gone, moving quickly across the deck after Mage Grapple.

  Mistral realised it had been the first time she had heard him use her name; and probably the last.

  The Desert Lands

  Mistral remained at the bow of Mage Grapple’s warship as she had been ordered but with typical defiance leaned out over the wooden balustrade to stare down at the deserted quayside below her. Before long the empty space was filled with warlocks leading their heavily armoured warhorses out from the belly of the ship in their customarily silent and orderly fashion. Each warlock took up position on the dock and stood motionless beside his horse until the entire army was assembled in regimented rows, completely filling the open square in a sea of black cowled figures and unnaturally still horses.

  The imposing figure of Mage Grapple already mounted on his own heavy-set horse, appeared from the depths of the warship’s cargo hold, stern-faced and ramrod straight in the saddle. He rode around the side of the silent formation and halted at the head, ready to lead his army. With no visible or audible signal that Mistral noticed the army of warlocks simultaneously mounted and rode after Mage Grapple, displaying the same menacingly rigid discipline Mistral had seen at the Amber River.

  A flash of gold suddenly caught Mistral’s eye. Fabian De Winter’s bright palomino appeared on the now empty quayside, tossing her head nervously at the strange sights and smells. Mistral stared down at Fabian’s dark head, watching him steady her with one hand before swinging himself up into the saddle. When Spirit wheeled around excitably Mistral caught a fleeting glimpse of his pale, set face looking up at her and then he was gone, cantering across the stone quayside to be lost from her sight.

  Mistral stayed on the deck watching the dust cloud created by the warlock army rising up into the still morning air. She felt none of the excitement, the heady sense of purpose she had expected to but was suddenly consumed by an inexplicable hollow sensation. It was eerily quiet. There were no signs of life in the village below her. No fishermen working on the quayside or people out in the streets. The occupants had obviously decided to hide away from Mage Grapple and his intimidating army of warlocks. Mistral couldn’t blame them, she wasn’t particularly looking forward to the next time she would see them, facing her across a battlefield. Mistral drew in a deep breath and made a physical effort to shake off the strange feeling of apathy. Giving one last glance towards the vanishing warlock army she turned and made her way across the deck, walking easily now that it was motionless. Reaching the same ladder she had climbed up the previous night she wedged her boots either side and slid quickly down into the cargo hold, suddenly anxious to see her horse. Pausing briefly at the bottom Mistral allowed her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, inhaling the soothingly familiar scent of straw and horse before hurrying along the narrow walkway between the rows of empty stalls, looking for Cirrus. Dust motes swirled in the air, gleaming in the narrow shafts of morning sunlight flowing in through small portholes set high up in the wooden sides. What little light they brought was almost immediately swallowed by the vast gloom of the cavernous cargo hold; the sheer size of the warship was daunting. Mistral made her way past more empty stalls, moving further into the bowels of the ship and suddenly began to grow apprehensive. Thoughts of Cirrus panicking on the journey, breaking out of his stall in the middle of the night and lying injured somewhere filled her mind. She began to run, staring frantically in at every vacant stall she passed until she finally spotted him. He was alone in a stall right in the centre of the ship, just as Fabian had promised. He whickered and tossed his head impatiently as Mistral sprinted towards him, ducking into his stall and calling his name in a voice filled with relief.

  ‘Hello Cirrus,’ she crooned to him, gently stroking his velvet soft nose for a moment before moving around him checking him for injuries, sliding her hands down his legs, feeling for any heat or swellings that would indicate any knocks sustained on the sea crossing. There were none. Mistral noted with satisfaction that Fabian had bedded his stall thickly with straw. He had tended her horse well.

  Mistral saddled Cirrus and quickly led him out of the stall. His iron shod hooves echoed like a drum roll when they moved through the immense empty belly of the ship. The overwhelming silence seemed suddenly oppressive and Mistral couldn’t wait to be out in the open air once more. Tugging lightly on the lead rein, Mistral urged Cirrus forward into a trot and they clattered noisily down the wooden ramp and out onto the quayside. Feeling horribly exposed stood on her own in the middle of an open space, Mistral
quickly mounted. Settling herself into the saddle she gathered the reins in one hand and drew a single sword with the other. Turning Cirrus in a circle she surveyed the surrounding houses, looking for any signs of danger. As she turned to face the waterfront Mistral noted a smaller ship moored a short distance along the quayside. There was no name painted on the bow and only a single black flag fluttered from the mast. Without doubt it was the Ri’s ship. Mistral shook her head with disbelief; how could they be using the same port? Well, she reasoned, maybe there was only one port; but it was going to make leaving fairly awkward ... if any of them would be leaving that was.

  Mistral kicked Cirrus into a trot and they quickly reached the same road leading into the village that Mage Grapple and his army had taken. The dusty street was lined with squat white-washed houses that looked like painted boxes. Each flat-topped roof was strung with lines of brightly coloured clothes drying in the sun, all hanging limply in the still morning air. The lines of washing were the only signs that people lived there. All the windows were tightly shuttered, reminding Mistral of the mountain village that had been laid siege to by the troll. She wondered whether the people of this village were inside, watching her through the wooden slats, or whether they had packed up and left until the battle had been fought. Her skin prickled as she rode past each shuttered house and she kept her hand curled tightly around the hilt of her sword, tensed ready for the creak of bow string being drawn or the rasp of a sword being unsheathed.

  Mistral reached the end of the narrow street and was abruptly faced with the vast open expanse of the Calescent Desert. Reining Cirrus to a halt they both gazed out across the barren wasteland while Mistral decided which direction to travel in. A clear trail left by the warlock army showed that they had veered sharply south east on leaving the village; obviously heading towards St Martine’s lands. With the village behind her and St Martine’s lands to her left, her choice of direction was limited but Mistral realised that she didn’t have a clue which way to go. It would be suicide to meander aimlessly around in the desert hoping to come across Rufus the Red’s camp by chance. Without thinking, Mistral turned her head and opened her mouth to speak before stopping with a horrified jolt. It was unthinkable ... but had she really been about to ask Fabian for his opinion? Giving a snort of disgust Mistral immediately turned Cirrus in the opposite direction and urged him into a fast canter, taking reassurance from the familiar motion of the powerful horse. Mistral kept her gaze fixed on the sand passing beneath Cirrus’ steadily pounding hooves, looking for any evidence of the warriors having travelled this way. She was out of luck, any impressions made by the Ri horses had been erased by the constantly shifting sand. Narrowing her eyes against the glare of the sun, Mistral concentrated instead on the shimmering horizon. This time luck favoured her and before long a shape quivered indistinctly through the heat haze ahead of her.