The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams)

by Kirsten Jones

  A loud grunt and a sensation similar to the start of an earthquake drew her attention to Grendel sitting down beside her.

  ‘Ready sister?’

  He used the respectful term of one Ri warrior to another and she nodded once in acknowledgement.

  ‘I hope you’re better looking in Elysium,’ she muttered staring with narrowed eyes into the distance, to where the enemy would ride in from.

  ‘Likewise,’ Grendel grunted and heaved himself up off the ground, giving a rumbling laugh he walked back into depths of the tent.

  Rufus had finished his briefing and his men erupted raucously from the main tent. Mistral wondered what he had told them, she guessed that he would have laid heavy emphasis on the fact that the Ri would take the worst on the onslaught, leaving them free to pick off the enemy from a safer distance. She listened to their boisterous jesting. They sounded more like they were on their way to a feast than a battle.

  Three short blasts sounded on a horn and everything stepped up a gear.

  ‘It is time.’

  Gleacher spoke quietly from the back of the tent. They stepped aside to let him pass through their ranks. He would lead them onto the battlefield and fight beside them. By comparison Rufus would be positioned in the centre of his cavalry, right at the back. As they waited behind Gleacher for his signal to move out, Rufus rode past their tent entrance leading his army onto the field. Even though the Ri would be the vanguard, Rufus wanted his army to appear on the field first. The Ri would follow on and assume their positions afterwards. They knew their place.

  Mistral stole a glance at Rufus when he rode by. The King was dressed in robes more suited to a coronation than a battlefield. She could see from his heavily flushed face that he was hot inside his unwieldy gold armour. His warhorse plodded slowly past, giving Mistral plenty of opportunity to observe how Rufus rode. She quickly came to the conclusion that he was not a very good rider. She hoped he fought better.

  The archers, swordsmen and foot soldiers followed, their noisy banter and crude jokes in stark contrast to the Ri’s calm silence. One or two of them stared rudely into the tent and laughed. Mistral couldn’t understand the language they spoke in but the meaning was clear; the soldiers viewed them as their own personal living armour.

  When the last soldier had staggered by, still swigging openly from a gourd of wine, Gleacher signalled for them to follow him.

  Mistral followed Grendel out of the tent. Saul and Cain were behind her, she glanced over her shoulder to meet Saul’s calm brown gaze. He smiled briefly in acknowledgement of her look. Cain’s normally impish face was set in a determined expression, his blue eyes flickered over hers but he gave no response. Behind them were the brothers, Xerxes and Brutus. Both had tied back their long hair in preparation for battle, leaving their faces looking unusually exposed and serious. Mistral didn’t bother to look for Konrad and Columbine but returned her attention to the direction they were taking through the tents and out into the open desert. The sun had risen in the time it had taken Rufus’ army to pass. It was barely above the dunes but already the heat was intense.

  Rufus’ army were already in place ahead of them. The Ri filed past in total silence, taking their positions at the front to face the warlock army.

  The sun inched higher into the azure sky, bringing with it searing heat and the scorching desert wind. Mistral narrowed her eyes against the glare and concentrated on the horizon. Diamond hard grains of sands stung her face, the sand shimmered white hot under the blazing sun, blinding her. She blinked and refocused until her eyes watered from the strain of staring so hard. The air around them grew heavy with tension and even Rufus’ soldiers were quiet now. Mistral could hear the unmistakable sound of one of them vomiting.

  ‘Enemy sighted!’ Gleacher Shacklock’s call drew their attention to an insignificant dust cloud on the horizon.

  The tension doubled to the rasping sound of the Ri drawing their weapons and the soft sigh of bowstrings being drawn. Mistral drew her double-swords and raised them to chest height, leaning forward into a half crouch, her eyes never leaving the growing dust cloud moving down the vast dune towards them. The sun beat down mercilessly and barbs of sand struck their faces but they were oblivious to anything but the battle about to begin. The wind carried the sounds of the oncoming army, the relentless pounding of hundreds of hooves galloping towards them, the snap of the long banners whipping overhead, the piercing neigh of an excited horse and the eerie high pitched battle call of St Martine’s soldiers.

  Mistral raised her head and breathed in the hot scents born to her; sweat, metal, leather and the unmistakable ozone reek of sorcery.

  ‘They’ve cast!’ she called to Gleacher. He relayed the information down the line.

  Grendel spat in the sand and growled, ‘Sorcerers! Don’t you just love them.’

  Mistral half-smiled despite herself and felt a spurt of affection for the man-mountain beside her.

  ‘Farewell brother,’ she murmured.

  Grendel grunted noncommittally and hefted his massive double-headed battle axe onto his shoulder.

  The approaching army was closer now. Mistral could make out individual shapes amongst the mass of black robed warlocks. St Martine was riding up front with Mage Grapple, his standard bearer rode alongside him clad in the army’s colours of green and gold. Galloping beside him and standing out like a jewel amongst coal was Fabian’s bright palomino. Mistral forced herself not to look at the rider and concentrated instead on Gleacher’s voice, calling out instructions.

  ‘Hold!’ he commanded in a hard voice. ‘Archers, take down the ranks! Avoid Mage Grapple and St Martine.’

  The oncoming army thundered towards them with unstoppable purpose. Mistral could hear the regular snorting of the horses fighting to race each other, eyes rolling wildly and mouths foaming. The smell of ozone was stronger now. Mistral wondered distractedly what type of illusionary or protective spell had been weaved then focussed on the battle format St Martine had chosen. She knew without looking that the rest of Ri were also studying the approaching army to see what strategies they could devise from the layout.

  At first glance it appeared fairly simple. St Martine’s army were organised into a square with the warlocks riding in a double row at the edges protecting a smaller army of foot soldiers in the centre. Mistral narrowed her eyes and stared harder – the foot soldiers were moving at the same measured pace as the galloping horses, their faces betraying none of the exertion that this unnatural feat would cause.

  ‘Tricks and lies!’ Grendel spat in the sand again.

  He, like all the Ri warriors, had also noticed the swiftly moving foot soldiers and had rightly guessed that a spell had been cast to create their abnormal fleetness. Mistral swore and adjusted the grip on her swords. The sounds grow louder. Rufus’ army surged impatiently, pushing them forward.

  There was only seconds left until Gleacher gave the order. Mistral adjusted her stance, digging her back foot more securely into the sand. Beside her Grendel began swinging his battle axe above his head in slow circles, casting a moving shadow as it revolved.

  Suddenly a different noise rose above the steady rumble of the oncoming army. The sound of rapid hoof beats was quickly followed by the sight of a small grey horse being ridden around the outside of the oncoming army at a flat out gallop. No more than a pony, the animal streaked past the steadily galloping horses and flew in front of them, its rider a blur of streaming white robes.

  There was a creak of bows as the archers automatically readjusted their aim to the new target.

  ‘Hold!’

  Gleacher’s iron voice rang out and echoing shouts came from St Martine’s army. The square of soldiers slowed and then halted. Silence reigned.

  The rider reigned in the panting grey horse directly between the two armies and for a second there was no movement. Both armies remained frozen, poised on the brink of battle, in a bizarre tableau against a burnished gold background of sand and blazing sun. Mistral
saw at once that the rider was mounted side-saddle but kept their face swathed from view by a long white headscarf.

  Staying mounted, the rider slowly began to unwind the long scarf. A horrified shout went up from St Martine’s army when the rider revealed long silken hair framing a pale oval face that was strangely familiar to Mistral.

  ‘Emiror!’

  St Martine’s tortured cry was echoed in the look on Mage Grapple’s face. Mistral willed herself not to look at Fabian.

  As Emiror unwound more of her protective scarves the wind blew her robes flat to her body, the fine cotton pressing itself perfectly to her swollen waist.

  She was heavily pregnant.

  A wave of feeling swept through the Ri warriors. Killing of innocents was abhorred, and nothing was more innocent than the unborn.

  Emiror raised her head at the sound of her name but made no move either to dismount or ride on. Her face was both proud and beautiful. Mistral wondered if Mage Grapple had looked similar before he had been so horrifically scarred ... perhaps that was why her face looked familiar.

  Fleetingly, she caressed her swollen belly, her face tender then resigned. Mistral was struck by how vulnerable she looked, unarmed and alone in the middle of a battlefield. At that exact moment in time she was the only thing stopping either army from attacking.

  Emiror turned to face the Ri. Raising both hands out in a beseeching gesture she called out, first to Rufus, then turning to repeat her impassioned plea to her husband and her brother.

  St Martine began to ride forward at once, his face a mask of agony. Mage Grapple spoke quickly to Fabian before they both rode after him. Behind her, Mistral could hear a rapid conversation between Rufus and his General followed by the thudding sounds of Rufus’ heavy warhorse lumbering forward through the ranks of his army. Flanked by his standard bearer and sour-faced General, Rufus rode out through the blurred heat haze to where Emiror sat alone on her spent horse.

  Rufus’ army jostled nervously as their King rode out unprotected into the sands. The Ri watched with unblinking eyes, tautly poised to act at the slightest sign of a trap.

  St Martine rode out slightly faster than Rufus, with Mage Grapple and Fabian keeping just behind him on either side. He reached Emiror seconds before Rufus did. The Ri warriors tensed expectantly and behind them came the sound of Rufus’ archers drawing their bowstrings tight.

  ‘Hold!’ Gleacher bellowed in a voice thick with strain.

  Emiror began to speak in a rapid voice, too quietly for anyone other than the five men around her to hear. Mistral could feel Grendel leaning forward slightly in an effort to catch what Emiror was saying, every pair of eyes was fixed on the scene being played out in front of them. Mistral knew that the lives of all of the Ri warriors now depended on what Emiror was saying and felt a wave of frustration. She hated not being in control of her destiny. Forcing all of her attention on to Emiror, she took a deep breath and slowly pushed all of the tension out of her mind, letting a calmness flow through her. Almost immediately Emiror’s aura materialised in a myriad of colours around her head.

  A wreath of royal blue hung suspended directly above her, its velvety hues shot through with glistening mother of pearl, like clouds in a blue sky. There was pink too and, forming a double-edged border to the deep blue cloud, a ring of pale green and copper.

  Purpose, hope, love, sadness and stubbornness.

  Mistral was mildly impressed despite herself; there was no fear in Emiror’s mind. It was no wonder Fabian found her attractive.

  Fabian.

  She risked a glance in his direction. His face was an inscrutable mask and he was too far away for his eyes to betray anything. She had no need of his aura to know how this would be tearing him apart and felt a burst of compassion for his pain. Drawing her attention back to the warriors, Mistral could immediately sense that the stress levels had risen to breaking point. Rufus’ army were being commanded to silence by a lieutenant, but to little or no avail. The soldiers were steadily becoming more vocal in their need to know what was going on.

  Gleacher was an unmoving statue staring with iron focus at the party on the battlefield, watching for any hints or signs of aggression from either party that would signal their call to battle.

  Suddenly Rufus threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was as though a tightrope had been cut and his army heaved a collective sigh of relief. They had obviously heard that laugh before and knew what it signified. Still laughing, Rufus clapped St Martine thunderously on the back and kicked his heavy warhorse into an unwilling canter back towards his waiting army, his General and standard bearer trotting along in his wake.

  ‘Prepare the main tent!’ he bellowed. ‘Food, wine and more wine! We negotiate!’

  As he neared the outer flanks of Ri warriors his bloodshot eye fell of Mistral.

  ‘Women on the battle field,’ he leered patronisingly. ‘Whatever next?’

  Then louder, for the general benefit of his army,

  ‘I wager St Martine will be getting an earful later! Feisty, that wife of his! I almost pity him! Women are like horses and dogs; the more you beat them, the better they be!’ Rufus roared with laughter at his own joke, his sycophantic army joining in a split second later.

  Mistral kept her eyes downcast and her face carefully neutral. There was a lot of pent up aggression in the ranks of Rufus’ army and she didn’t want to be the cause of an outbreak. She sensed Grendel struggling to restrain himself beside her. Swifter and more silent than a shadow, Gleacher was beside them in an instant. He did not speak but his presence was enough to warn Grendel that any action would be foolish.

  Rufus urged his warhorse on towards the camp, his army broiling riotously around him, cheering and shouting as though he had just fought and won the battle single-handed. The Ri remained where they were, all eyes fixed on Gleacher. He waited for the army to pass then signalled wordlessly for them to pack up and leave at once. Without hesitation the warriors slipped quickly from the battlefield, not together as they had entered, but silently and stealthily, heading for the deep shadows thrown by the brightly coloured tents.

  Not a word was spoken as they stole into the large tent they had occupied and rapidly gathered their stashed belongings. One by one they slid from the tent and made their way to the horse enclosure, hugging the sides of the tents where the shadows were darkest. The sounds of revelry were already picking up as they saddled their horses. The negotiations for a treaty would be held in Rufus’ main tent and it sounded like a party was already in progress.

  Once the horses were saddled Gleacher mounted and gave the signal for them to leave at a walk; any faster would create too much noise and draw attention to their rapid departure. Mistral’s back prickled uncomfortably while they walked out of the camp onto the dusty road leading back to the harbour. She hated to expose her back to any potential danger and fought the urge to look over her shoulder every few seconds.

  She was surprised to find herself riding beside Konrad. His face had reassumed its usual perpetually discontented expression. Intrigued, Mistral looked around for Columbine and spotted her riding three horses back, her surly features had lost their miserable look and were fixed in the familiar cantankerous expression she normally wore. Mistral guessed that she must be feeling better now that she knew she would be seeing Golden again which explained why Konrad wasn’t drawn to her any more.

  ‘Mistral,’ Saul murmured her name as he rode up on her right side. ‘Am I glad to be leaving that camp behind!’

  ‘Why all the secrecy about us leaving?’ she whispered, noticing that no-one else was talking yet.

  ‘We got paid in advance and no battle happened. There’s a lot of wine being drunk and a lot of blood lust to be vented. Rufus’ men still haven’t been paid and Gleacher thinks they would’ve turned on us,’ he muttered back.

  Mistral nodded as she absorbed this piece of information and realised with a grimace that she had just risked her own life for an idiot like Rufus and not be
en paid for any of it. Rolling her eyes in disdain at her own stupidity Mistral reflected sourly that she was going to make a terrible warrior if she did everything for free. Fabian was right, she was totally ruled by her pride and her temper.

  Fabian. His name rang like a bell inside her.

  Lost in her own thoughts, Mistral only noticed that the warriors had begun talking amongst themselves again when a gruff voice behind her spoke.

  ‘A good day. We got paid and no blood was shed.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ Grendel grumbled, stomping up between her and the speaker, a Ri warrior Mistral didn’t know. Grendel shoved past them bad-temperedly and broke into a heavy run as Gleacher gave the order for them to up the pace; he had still not found a horse capable of carrying his bulk, forcing him to still go everywhere on foot.

  The warriors cantered into the village to find it still eerily deserted. Mistral looked around at the closely shuttered houses and wondered if they were still in hiding or had gone up to the camp to celebrate. Either way, it made their departure a whole lot easier.

  The Ri’s ship was moored where Mistral had last seen it, looking like a piece dropped off from Mage Grapple’s massive warship docked a short distance away. There were no signs of life on the warship. It would be some time before he would be able to leave the treaty negotiations.

  ‘Is that Mage Grapple’s warship?’ Brutus asked in an awestruck voice, dragging his reluctant horse forward to stand beside Cirrus who promptly tried to bite him.

  Mistral nodded, staring up at the vast sweep of the wooden hull, remembering the strange journey here.

  ‘But … where are the sails?’ he asked in a curious voice.