The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams) (39 page)

‘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.   

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 be
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. 

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.