The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams)

by Kirsten Jones

  Mistral looked at him, ‘You would’ve gone on too Saul. Any of us would do the same for each other.’

  Saul looked unconvinced but nodded, ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he paused and suddenly grinned at her. ‘I’m pleased you’re here. It wouldn’t be the same going into battle with one of us missing.’

  ‘Except Golden of course,’ muttered Mistral.

  Saul snorted, ‘Haven’t you noticed that she always vanishes after each Saturday training session for the rest of the weekend?’

  Mistral pulled a face, ‘I try not to notice Golden at all.’

  Saul laughed, ‘We’ve all got bets on where she goes. I reckon it’s a lover, but Cain thinks she’s really a vampire and has to stock up on blood at the weekends.’

  ‘Huh? A lover? No chance! More likely to have her nose hairs plaited or something equally as pointless done to her pristine countenance.’

  They both laughed. Mistral felt herself relax slightly. It was good to be amongst the apprentices again. She was relieved that they didn’t appear to blame her for not being able to turn back Mage Grapple’s army, which made her suddenly think that Gleacher must have left out the fact that she’d failed in the first part of her Contract. Mistral was grateful for his tactful omission but also slightly puzzled as to why the Contract’s Officer would have done that. He was hardly the compassionate sort after all. Suddenly fed up with everyone seeming to have an ulterior motive, Mistral decided to find out what Gleacher’s reason had been for herself.

  ‘You know what Saul, something to eat would be good,’ she said leaping lightly to her feet and heading off back into the camp.

  ‘See you later, Mistral,’ Saul said, settling himself into a more comfortable position on the sand and gazing out at the slowly reddening sky.

  Mistral hurried back along the avenue of tents thinking about how to ask Gleacher without offending the prickly Contracts Officer. But she had made her mind up. Offended or not, she wanted to know why Gleacher had covered up her failure, aside from being fed-up with never-ending lies and half-truths, Mistral couldn’t stand the thought of being hailed as some sort of saviour when in fact she was going to be the cause of many deaths.

  When she passed by the huge red and white tent Mistral could clearly hear raised voices. One was speaking in a heavy accent and remonstrating with a quieter, more anxious sounding voice.

  Mistral risked a glance out of the corner of her eye as she walked quietly past the entrance. A huge man with flaming red hair was shouting at the white-robed man Mistral had seen lead the negotiation party. She guessed that the red-haired man must be Rufus the Red. He was dressed in expensive looking robes of silk that had been made for a slimmer man, making him look like a well-dressed barrel.

  ‘I don’t care what St Martine says!’ Rufus was yelling. ‘There is ore under that damned sand and it will be ours!’

  The general’s reply was too indistinct for Mistral to make out but Rufus’ bellowed response was more than clear.

  ‘Of course he says that you fool! He wants to mine it for himself! And I’ll be damned if it’s false information! I paid for a fortune for that report! Do you think I’m an idiot?’

  Mistral raised her eyebrows and hurried past. Best not to answer that one, general, she thought with a smile.

  She reached the Ri tent and slipped inside. The warriors and apprentices were gathered around a series of low tables where a simple meal had been laid out. They had obviously been waiting for her to arrive because everyone immediately began to eat the moment she sat down next to Brutus. Grabbing a piece of fruit she didn’t recognise Mistral began picking at it absently while she scanned the tent, looking for Gleacher Shacklock. He was sat, cross-legged on a cushion at the far end of the tent, deep in conversation with a warrior Mistral didn’t know. He looked as though he wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed so Mistral decided to wait until the meal was finished. Reaching across the low table for a cup of water Mistral caught sight of Brutus’s face. The bruise Cirrus had given him was blooming into a deep purple shadow over his cheekbone.

  ‘Sorry about the bruise,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Cirrus can be a bit of a handful.’

  Brutus looked at her, his expression wary, ‘It wasn’t Cirrus,’ he muttered back. ‘Although you’re right, he is a bit of a handful.’

  ‘Who did that to you then?’ she asked with a frown.

  Brutus shook his head and Mistral thought at first that he wasn’t going to reply but he eventually did, murmuring so low that she had to bend her head towards him to catch the words.

  ‘Rufus’ men. They wanted to know how much we’ve been paid to fight. Apparently they haven’t been paid yet … anyway, they got a bit upset when I wouldn’t tell them anything.’

  ‘I hope you battered them into next week!’ Mistral muttered back with feeling.

  Brutus shot her a warning look, ‘The last thing we need is to be fighting with this army as well as the warlocks!’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Mistral reluctantly, forcing her temper down. ‘And I wouldn’t put it past that bunch of cowards to sneak in here tonight and try to slit our throats while we sleep.’

  Brutus snorted disdainfully and tore off a piece of bread, ‘They wouldn’t do that or there’d be no-one to fight for them!’

  They both jumped when a voice sounded directly behind them.

  ‘I saw you looking for me Mistral, do you have news you wish to share with me?’

  Mistral turned to look up at into the hard face of Gleacher Shacklock and nodded.

  ‘Follow me,’ he ordered quietly and strode off across the tent to the same dim corner they had spoken in before.

  Brutus watched him go with a shake of his head, ‘I swear that man is on wheels! He could creep up on a ghost!’

  Mistral suppressed a laugh and left Brutus to walk quickly over to where the Contracts Officer was already seated. She dropped down onto one of the cushions opposite him and gazed at him. Steepling his fingers together, Gleacher raised his eyebrows and waited for her to begin.

  Here we go again, thought Mistral and prepared herself to relate the events of the afternoon.

  ‘Grendel spotted Mage Grapple’s party approaching and alerted Rufus –’

  The look on Gleacher’s face told her this was old news. Grendel must have reported back when he finished guard duty.

  ‘Who sent out a party to intercept them before they reached the camp,’ finished Mistral lamely.

  ‘And who was in his party?’ Gleacher asked in a cold voice.

  ‘There were four riders. The only one I recognised was in The Cloak and Dagger when the Contract was announced,’

  ‘His General,’ Gleacher confirmed, nodding thoughtfully. ‘So King Rufus was not in the party?’

  Mistral shook her head.

  ‘Did you see the General when he returned?’ Gleacher asked, looking at her intently.

  ‘Yes. Er, he didn’t look very happy –’

  Gleacher’s eyes narrowed a little, ‘But what did you really see Mistral?’

  Mistral’s eyes widened and she felt herself blush slightly when she realised that Gleacher assumed she’d read the General’s aura.

  ‘Yes, I did read the General,’ she admitted, still slightly red-faced. ‘Er, lots of anger, stubbornness and a definite sense of purpose.’

  Gleacher fell silent and Mistral suddenly remembered what she’d overheard on the way past Rufus’ tent.

  ‘Oh, there’s something else! When I was coming back here just now I overheard Rufus shouting at his General –’

  ‘What exactly did you hear?’ Gleacher demanded sharply.

  Mistral closed her eyes and tried to recall the precise words Rufus had used; something about him being an idiot stuck in her mind …

  ‘Rufus was fuming, he was yelling that he didn’t care what St Martine said and that he knew there was ore under the sand … I couldn’t hear what the General was saying but it sounded like he was telling Rufus that the information was
fake because Rufus got really mad then and said that St Martine was lying because he wanted to mine it for himself … oh that’s right, Rufus also said that he had paid a lot of money for the report … yes, that’s everything,’ finished Mistral, deciding not to add the bit about Rufus asking whether his General thought he was an idiot.

  ‘Thank you, that’s most useful,’ said Gleacher quietly and began to drum his fingers lightly on the table top, his face clouded in thought.

  Mistral remained sitting opposite him and after a long moment Gleacher looked at her coldly.

  ‘That is all Mistral, you may go – unless there is something else you wish to tell me?’ he said, catching the uncertain look on her face.

  ‘Well, ask you actually,’ she began hesitantly. ‘Saul told me what you had said to the others, about my Contract I mean, and I was wondering why you didn’t tell them that I’d failed in the first part.’

  Gleacher regarded her for a moment before replying, ‘And what purpose do you think telling the warriors that information would serve?’

  Mistral frowned. In truth, telling the warriors might have made some of them feel badly towards her, which would only be detrimental to morale on the eve of a battle.

  ‘Well, none,’ she finally had to admit. ‘But don’t they deserve to know the truth? I mean, if I’d managed to do what I was Contracted to then they wouldn’t be facing Mage Grapple’s army of warlocks, would they?’

  Knitting his brows together in a deep frown, Gleacher leaned across the table and fixed her with a black look, ‘Listen closely to me Mistral, because I will not waste breath on saying this to you twice. You ask what they deserve. They deserve to be paid for the work they have been Contracted to do. The fact that you were unsuccessful is of no consequence. Warriors deal only in definite facts, not what might have been. Warlock army or none, we would still be going into battle – and one more thing –’ he leaned so close to her that she wanted to move back but she forced herself to remain still and continue to meet his hard stare.

  ‘I credit myself with knowing Mage Grapple better than you, and I can tell you this; there is absolutely nothing that you could have said to convince him not to do whatever he could to protect Emiror.’

  He withdrew to his side of the table and bowed his head in thought once more and Mistral knew that she was being firmly dismissed. She stood up and made her way slowly back across the tent, her mind whirling with thoughts. So Gleacher obviously thought that the first part of the Contract from Leo was unachievable too, just like Phantasm did. But, what did that mean? Why would Leo want to deliberately set them up to fail? Mistral couldn’t believe Phantasm’s far-fetched theory about Leo wanting to put them into his debt and use their powers to help him further his ambitions … but she had to admit that it was starting to fit. Mistral shook her head in disgust at herself. She was started to sound as paranoid as Phantasm.

  ‘What was that about?’ Brutus inquired when she returned to her seat.

  ‘He just wanted to know about the negotiation party,’ said Mistral, shrugging dismissively. ‘Nothing to tell really. They didn’t look overly happy when they rode back in and Rufus was yelling his head off in his tent at his General,’ she reached absent-mindedly for a piece of bread, breaking it between her fingers and taking a small bite.

  ‘Looks like we’re going into battle tomorrow then.’

  Mistral nodded but said nothing; she was thinking about the warlocks.

  Gleacher Shacklock’s voice cut across her thoughts once more, but this time he was addressing all of the warriors and apprentices.

  ‘I am going to meet with Rufus’ General for an update. I may be gone a while. In my absence I ask you all to prepare for battle in the morning and I suggest,’ he glared meaningfully at the apprentices, ‘that an early night would be beneficial to you all staying alive tomorrow.’

  Then he was gone, sweeping from the tent into the dusky light of evening.

  ‘What was with the warning?’ Mistral asked curiously, finishing her cup of water and setting it down on the table in front of her.

  Brutus nodded his head towards where Cain and Xerxes were sitting, ‘It was a long sea crossing. Cain and Xerxes got bored and started running a card game. Things got a bit out of hand and they played for three days straight with no sleep ... they’ve made a fortune,’ he finished wistfully.

  Mistral wasn’t surprised. Xerxes would bet on the weather and Cain was always up for anything. She glanced over to see them wearing identical looks of discontent. They had obviously been planning another game. Their matching expressions immediately reminded Mistral of the twins and she sighed, realising that she was missing their incessant flow of inane chatter. She listened instead to some of the conversations going on around her, trying to block thoughts of what tomorrow might bring.

  She gazed vaguely around the tent and a lone figure sat at the back caught her eye, Columbine. Konrad was hovering close by with the same odd expression on his face that Mistral had noticed before.

  ‘Brutus, what’s going on with Konrad and Columbine?’ she asked, turning her head to murmur quietly to avoid Konrad hearing her.

  Brutus looked over at the two apprentices briefly, his expression indifferent, ‘Konrad is half-drow. He’s naturally drawn to misery and Columbine is literally like a beacon to him at the moment. She’s utterly lost without Golden … she hasn’t even managed to say anything unpleasant since we got here. It’s made quite a refreshing change actually.’

  Mistral watched the pair for a while longer. Konrad made no attempt to speak with Columbine or even move any closer to her. He kept a short distance away, watching her intently, almost rapturously, like a dog basking in front of a warm fire. Columbine appeared oblivious to Konrad’s fixation and looked, as Brutus had said, utterly lost. Mistral rolled her eyes in disgust. Love again. And because of it they were going to have one warrior on the battlefield tomorrow that would be next to useless. Despite Columbine’s objectionable nature, she was a good fighter.

  The mood in the tent was subdued; the sense of waiting almost palpable. Gleacher got his wish as before long most of the apprentices and warriors rolled themselves into their cloaks to sleep. Mistral walked to the tent entrance, needing to feel the cool night air. Wrapped in her cloak, she leaned back against the canvas wall and dozed fitfully, weaving in and out of dreams of faceless warlocks, the heavily scarred Mage Grapple and sudden flashes of Fabian’s face that made her wake with a start every time.

  Battle

  Dawn broke, lightening the sky above the camp to delicate shades of pink. The day of the battle had finally arrived.

  After the Ri warriors had finished their meagre breakfast Gleacher stood up and called for their attention, not that there had been much in the way of noise. Everyone was quiet, focussed on the coming battle. Gleacher began his briefing and Mistral found herself wondering if Mage Grapple was doing the same with his army of warlocks and what orders he would be giving; would he instruct them to avoid engaging with the Ri warriors as he had promised?

  Gleacher delivered his instructions with calm authority. As a seasoned veteran he instantly commanded the respect of every warrior there. Mistral watched the Contracts Officer closely, allowing his aura to float into view above his head. It was becoming almost second nature for her to examine people’s emotions as they spoke, finding that it gave her a valuable insight into how the person really felt about what they were saying.

  ‘I have received my instructions from Rufus.’

  A ripple of anticipation ran through the Ri. Gleacher’s expression gave nothing away but Mistral saw displeasure in his aura. She constantly marvelled at the often vast differences between facial expressions and true emotions. Gleacher was hiding how he felt well, but then, in his role of Contracts Officer he not only had to be skilled on the battlefield but also a confident negotiator; carefully balancing the safety of warriors against the requirements of the Contracts he had agreed to on their behalf.

  ‘We are to b
e the vanguard,’ he stated flatly.

  This met with no response; they had expected little else.

  ‘And we will be on foot.’

  This announcement elicited an outbreak of murmuring from the apprentices. The more seasoned warriors remained silent. Nothing surprised them anymore.

  ‘This,’ continued Gleacher in a louder voice, overriding the whispers, ‘is to allow Rufus’ mounted archers a clear aim over us … for our safety.’

  There was no disguising the hint of sarcasm in his voice. Rufus’ archers had been drinking since the night before and were more likely to shoot one of the Ri than the enemy.

  Mistral felt her last grain of hope slip away. If the Ri were to be on the front line there was no way they could avoid engaging with the warlocks. The armour all of the warriors wore would offer some protection against any spells cast, but not against the sheer size of the warlock army. Mistral closed her eyes; it was going to be a massacre. She was suddenly relieved that the Ri were going in on foot. Even though Cirrus was battle-trained she would fight better not having to worry about him being wounded.

  Gleacher went on to outline tactics and issued formation orders. Mistral listened carefully, noting dispassionately that she would be at the front next to Grendel and one of the second year apprentices. Behind them would be line of Ri archers, all of elven blood. They were to join the line of Rufus’ own archers. After that would come Rufus’ foot soldiers and finally, his cavalry, surrounding the King himself.

  Gleacher finished the briefing with the traditional battle salute.

  ‘May the brave meet again in the Fields of Elysium!’

  They gave the reply in one clear voice.

  ‘We, the brave shall surely see you there.’

  The Ri warriors went about their preparations calmly and efficiently. The horses were watered, fed and corralled safely. Armour was checked, weapons were double checked. Mistral sat quietly in the entrance to the large tent slowly binding her hands and wrists with strips of leather that would help her grip when her hands grew sweaty, or bloody. The sun had not risen above the western dunes yet and the watery blue sky was still streaked with the coral pinks of sunrise. It was perfectly still; the tents were motionless and the long red banners of Rufus’ army hung limply against their poles. The brooding silence of the camp was broken only by the occasional bawdy laugh from one of Rufus’ men, preparing for battle with a gourd of wine.