The Spook 9 - Slither's tale (22 page)

‘Listen well, fool,’ Balkai continued, his mouth still close to my ear. ‘We the Triumvirate always act in our own best interests. We make, shape and break the law when necessary. I wish you a safe journey until you die.’

I bowed and smiled sarcastically. ‘I thank you for your kind solicitations, Lord. After I have killed Eblis, I will hang his ugly head from the tallest branch of my ghanbala tree. It is early spring in my haizda and the crows will be hungry. They consider eyeballs a great delicacy.’

Then, without another glance at him, I mounted my horse and rode with Nessa and Bryony away from Valkarky. I felt the eyes of the High Mage boring into my back. He was seething with anger and his discomfort made my heart sing.

In truth, I had hoped to ride away from the city bathed in goodwill, able to put the unpleasantness of my visit behind me. But some people cannot let things go, and Balkai seemed determined to have one last attempt to end my life.

Eblis was the leader and most formidable of the Shaiksa assassins. He was known as He Who Cannot Be Defeated. The order advanced their knowledge each time one of their brotherhood died in combat, his dying thoughts communicating the manner of that demise. Some of them would also have studied my fight in the arena; by now they would be well versed in my style of fighting and might have detected a weakness, unknown even to me, which they might exploit.

Using powerful magic, they had created a dangerous weapon, the Kangadon, also known as the Lance of Power or the Lance That Cannot Be Broken. Its other name is the King Slayer, for it had been used to kill the last King of Valkarky: his immense strength and formidable magical defences had proved inadequate against such a weapon. There were many rumours about this blade, but none other than a Shaiksa
had
ever set eyes upon it, let alone witnessed it in action.

There was nothing I could do but deal with the threat when it came, so I thrust the problem from my mind and led the sisters south. I would try to keep my promise and return the younger purra to her aunt and uncle. There was no point in telling the two girls about the new danger. If I died before parting ways with them, they would be returned to Valkarky – either to be eaten or to face a lifetime of slavery.

The wind was blowing from the south with a promise of spring, and on the fifth day we entered a forest of tall pines. Amongst them was a scattering of deciduous trees, their stark branches already softened with new green shoots.

As evening approached, we made camp and soon I had a fire going and was heating soup for the purrai, its aroma steaming up into the cold crisp air. They seemed subdued and deep in thought, so I left Nessa stirring the liquid, watched by the hungry Bryony, and decided to go hunting. My needs were different. I needed blood and raw meat.

The snow was thin on the ground, with tussocks of grass showing through. However, it was deep enough to show fresh tracks, and soon my belly was rumbling with hunger as I closed in on my prey. It had already gone to ground, but its shallow burrow offered no protection and I reached in and seized it by the tail. It was an anchiette, fully mature and about as long as my arm. Its blood was warm and sweet, and I drank my fill before picking the delicate meat from its skinny ribs. Finally I chewed, crunched and swallowed its tasty leg-bones.

My hunger somewhat assuaged, I turned to retrace my steps.
It
was then that I noticed something carved into the trunk of a nearby tree.

It had been gouged into the bark quite recently, and I examined it closely, tracing its shape with my forefinger. It was the simple depiction of a pair of scissors. Why should anyone wish to carve such a thing here? I wondered. Was it a marker so that others might follow?

And then I remembered that the witch assassin had a pair of scissors in a leather sheath. Had
she
carved that symbol, and if so, why?

Grimalkin had said that she would escort us south and then on to the slave kulad, but this was the first sign that she might be somewhere close.

Again, I wondered if I could trust the witch. Why did she not reveal herself? Puzzled, I walked back to our camp.

The next day, after the purrai had eaten, I removed the overshoes of the horses and we continued on our way south.

Two days later we came to a temperate valley. Sheltered from the northern winds, it had its own micro-climate. The deciduous trees now outnumbered the conifers, and their branches were already covered in fresh green leaves. The snow had melted here, making the ground squelchy, and in places our mounts churned it to soft mud.

The setting sun was bright, shining into our eyes out of a clear sky. Birds sang overhead, insects droned, and we rode along slowly, looking for a place to camp.

Suddenly everything became unnaturally quiet.

The birds ceased their spring songs. Even the insects fell silent. All that could be heard was the breathing of the horses and the slow rhythm of hooves on the soft ground.

Then I understood the reason why.

Directly ahead was a large solitary oak tree. It was gnarled, black and twisted, all life driven from it by the cold of the winter. Beneath that tree the Shaiksa waited. He was sitting astride a black stallion; a long lance, which he gripped with a black leather gauntlet, was angled back to rest easily against his shoulder. He was clad in black armour of the highest quality; plate lay across plate, sure to turn aside the strongest blade. He also wore a helmet with a lowered visor so that only the throat was truly vulnerable. Balkai had been true to his word: here was the assassin he had promised to send against me.

I could not see his eyes. It always bothers me when I cannot gaze into the eyes of an enemy. I feel at a disadvantage.

The neck of the assassin was adorned with a triple necklace of skulls; some, though incredibly small, were human. The Shaiksa used magic to shrink the skulls of their defeated enemies; thus they were able to decorate themselves with many such signs of victory without impeding their movements. The number of such adornments told me that I was indeed gazing upon Eblis, the most deadly of all the Shaiksa Brotherhood. The lance he held was the Kangadon, which he
had
used to kill the last King of Valkarky nine centuries earlier.

I heard the sound of hooves behind me as the sisters wisely moved their mounts out of the way of the expected attack.

Taking the initiative, I drew two blades and charged towards Eblis, my mount gathering speed as it pounded over the muddy ground. So sudden was my assault that the Shaiksa didn’t have time to bring up the lance properly. I was upon him before he could target me.

My blades flashed in the sunlight and there was the clash of metal on metal. The one in my right hand found the join between two armoured plates on Eblis’s chest. I thrust it upwards into the gap and it jammed. Whether it had penetrated the flesh was impossible to say. But the blade in my left hand shattered against the Shaiksa’s armour and I tossed away the hilt of the broken weapon. As I turned my mount, ready to attack again, I drew the sabre.

But this time I lacked the advantage of surprise. Eblis was ready for my attack and he urged his own horse forward too, the sharp tip of the Kangadon aimed straight at my heart. I twisted in my saddle, ensuring that the point of the lance missed me, but I had no opportunity to strike a blow of my own.

We brought our horses round and thundered towards each other again, the assassin once more lowering the lance into a horizontal position, his horse kicking up a spray of mud behind him.

However, I focused my concentration, and now I created a magical shield identical to the one that had thwarted the hyb’s
sharp
talons. It was small and bright, gleaming in the air, no bigger than a hand’s span, but I positioned it precisely with my mind and held it firm so that the lance, despite its magical properties, might be deflected.

But at the moment of contact I suddenly understood how Eblis had defeated the King of Valkarky so long ago. The king would no doubt have used a magical shield even more powerful than my own, but at the moment of his death he must have recognized the true power of the Kangadon: nothing could deflect it from its target.

And so it was now. The tip of the lance went through my shield like a knife through butter and sought out my heart. I was a fraction of a second away from death. Only one thing remained for me to do; I could not deflect the Kangadon, so I had to evade it.

I twisted in the saddle, avoiding its tip by the thickness of a butterfly’s wing, and threw myself off my horse. I absorbed some of the impact by tucking my arms and legs in close to my body and rolling forward as I met the ground. It was soft after the melting of the winter’s snow and that helped to cushion the blow, but nevertheless, the air was punched from my lungs. The sabre flew out of my hand and I lay sprawled on the ground while my deadly opponent quickly turned his horse and charged at me again.

I managed to sit up, but I was befuddled, struggling to clear my head after my heavy tumble. Eblis had almost reached me, the tip of the Kangadon still aimed unerringly at my heart. I thought my end had come, when suddenly I heard the
drumming
of other hooves and something rushed towards him from my left.

It was a white horse and rider. Now they were between me and the assassin, and they met the force of his charge. The white horse whinnied and toppled over, throwing its rider into the air like a rag doll. I glimpsed her face as she spun over and over before hitting the ground hard.

It was little Nessa. She had tried to save me and had now paid the price.

Her mount whinnied again, and rolled over before heaving itself upright. I glanced towards Nessa. She was lying face down and was not moving. Her death had been quick and kind – far better than the one she would have faced at the hands of the Shaiksa once I had been dispatched. She was the luckiest of the three sisters. The tawny death was quick, but it was extremely painful to undergo, with hot bubbles popping inside your stomach and intestines, and your flesh melting from within.

I realized I had failed to keep my promise to Old Rowler. Once I was dead, the youngest child would be slain too, her throat cut by this assassin. She would suffer the same death they had originally intended for her back in the tower. I had merely delayed the inevitable. I felt angry and bitter at the prospect of my defeat. It had all been for nothing.

Eblis brought his horse round in a slow arc, his lance at the ready. My head was clearing now and I looked around for my sabre. I was unable to deflect the blade, but at least I could die with a weapon in my hand. But my legs simply refused
to
work: all I could do was struggle up onto my knees.

The Shaiksa raised his visor and smiled at me. He wished me to gaze upon the face of the one who would slay me. I did not waste any words and kept my expression impassive. Inside, I was seething with anger at the thought that Balkai would get his way. I had proved myself in the trial; in sending this assassin, he had showed no honour. He was unscrupulous and corrupt.

Although I knew that I would die here, I wanted to reach my sabre: I would do my best to hurt Eblis so that he would always remember our encounter. One had to die sometime, and to fall to the greatest of the Shaiksa assassins – He Who Cannot Be Defeated – was a worthy death.

He charged again. I twisted away, but the tip of the lance pierced my right shoulder and Eblis jerked it upwards violently, lifting me off my feet. For a moment I was helpless and in terrible pain, but my weight, in addition to the length of the lance, meant that he could not hold me aloft for more than a few seconds. The moment he was forced to lower it, I slid down the lance, hit the ground and rolled to the side.

When I got to my knees again, blood was running down my arm and dripping into the mud. In moments I would surely be dead, but still I would not give up, and I began to crawl across the mud towards my sabre. It seemed a long way away; at any moment Eblis might charge again and transfix me with his lance – maybe this time through the heart.

As I made my way painfully along, I kept my eyes on him. He was staring at me but did not urge his mount forward.
Everything
was very still and quiet. Then I realized that he was not looking at me after all. I risked a quick backward glance.

Behind me, slightly to my left, I saw another rider on a stallion as black and powerful as Eblis’s. I knew that rider. It was a purra.

It was Grimalkin, the human witch assassin.