The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams) (37 page)

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.  Mistral’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.

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. 

Gradually the
shimmering image grew clearer, revealing itself to be an array of brightly
coloured tents that stood out vividly against the bleached wilderness of the
desert.  The predominantly red silken canvases flapped and billowed in the
hot desert wind as though they were alive.  Rufus the Red was obviously
not worried about the whereabouts of his camp being obvious.  

Mistral
spurred Cirrus on, eager to reach the camp before the heat of the day grew any
more intense.  She drew closer ad almost smiled when she made out the
massive form of Grendel on guard duty at the camp’s entrance.  He had
noticed her approach and was stood upright, his battle axe raised ready to
challenge the unknown rider.  Slowing Cirrus to a trot and then a walk,
Mistral hailed him once she was within earshot.

‘Grendel! 
It’s me!  Mistral!’

Grendel
grunted in acknowledgment, swinging the head of his battle axe down with a
heavy thud.

‘Mistral?’ 
Grendel blinked stupidly at her.  ‘How did you get here?  You weren’t
on the ship,’ he frowned heavily and struggled to figure out how she could be
there.

‘Long story
brother, I’ll tell you later,’ said Mistral and reined Cirrus to a halt beside
him.  ‘But right now I really need to meet with Master Shacklock. 
Can you show me which tent he’s in?’

Grendel
grunted and turned to face the camp. 

‘See that
massive red and white thing that looks like a circus tent?  Well three
down from that on the right is the Ri’s tent,’ he said, lifting a huge hand to
point along the avenue of tents.

Mistral looked
in the direction he was pointing in.  She could clearly see the huge
billowing red and white tent Grendel was referring to and kicked Cirrus on.

‘Thanks
brother.  See you later,’ she said quickly and rode into the camp.

Mistral held
Cirrus at a steady walk along the rows of tents, not wishing to attract any
more attention than necessary.  She kept her eyes fixed steadfastly in
front of her when she rode by the open mouths of the tent entrances and
resisted the urge to return the curious glances and suspicious stares from
Rufus’ soldiers.  The mood in the army camp was not as she had expected it
would be.  Some of the tents exuded an almost carnival atmosphere with the
noisy occupants in high-spirits.  Mistral could smell the ripe fumes of
wine mixed with heavy-scented tobacco coming from almost every tent she
passed.  It appeared that Rufus’ men were treating the forthcoming battle
as an excuse to enjoy some revelry. 

Mistral passed
the large red and white tent to see a raucous party taking place.  She
urged Cirrus into a trot when one of the occupants spotted her through the
awning and shouted a lewd comment.  When she reached the third tent along
Mistral immediately knew it was the right one by the lack of noise and
alcoholic fumes pouring out of the entrance.  She dismounted and led Cirrus
into the wide opening, pausing just inside the dim, cool interior of the tent.

It was like
walking into a blissful sanctuary.  Ri warriors and apprentices were sat
on brightly coloured cushions on the floor, talking quietly or polishing
weapons and checking armour; there were even a couple of games of knucklebones
being played. 

‘Mistral!’ 
Brutus stepped out of the shadows at the tent’s entrance to greet her. 
‘Better late than never!  I thought it wasn’t like you to miss a fight!’

‘Brutus,’
Mistral nodded a greeting while she scanned the inside of the tent and quickly
spotted all of the apprentices sat together around a low table, only Columbine
was absent from their group.  She was sat on her own at the back of the
tent, looking dejected.  Mistral noticed that Konrad was staring at her
with a strange gloating expression on his face.  Snapping her gaze back to
Brutus, Mistral spoke in a low voice filled with urgency. 

‘I’ve got
important news for Master Shacklock.  Is he here?’

‘Yes I am
Mistral, and I would very much like to know what you are doing here.’  

Gleacher
Shacklock’s sharp voice cut across the quiet of the tent like a
thunderclap.  He strode across the tent towards her.  At the sound of
her name the apprentices all looked up from their table and grinned at her, a
few of the warriors also glanced across with mild curiosity.

‘Brutus, see
to Mistral’s horse!’  Gleacher ordered. 

Brutus
blanched at being instructed to handle Cirrus but didn’t dare argue. 
Mistral passed him the reins with a brief look of commiseration before turning
her attention back to the Ri’s formidable Training Contracts Officer.

‘Follow me,’
he said curtly then turned and strode back into the depths of the tent. 
Mistral followed, keeping her head down to avoid the questioning looks she was
getting.

Gleacher
settled himself onto a large cushion next to a low table and indicated for
Mistral to sit opposite him.  Mistral sat quickly and paused briefly to
wish that she had Phantasm’s oratorical skills before leaning forward over the
table to speak without being overheard.  She knew the Contracts Officer
well enough to know he would expect her to relay her story right away; he would
ask questions later.