‘You are fast, but you lack focus,’ the assassin proclaimed as Cole crashed to the ground. ‘Keep your mouth shut and worry about taunting your opponent after the fight is won.’
Cole wasn’t finished yet. He planted his palms on the floor, rocked himself back and then kicked up in the air, springing forwards so that he landed on his feet. ‘I’m just getting started,’ he said.
The Darkson looked unimpressed.
This time he took more care, probing for openings and staying just out of reach of the other man’s legs. He darted forwards suddenly, aiming a stab at the assassin’s chest. The Darkson swivelled with incredible speed and grabbed his lunging arm, twisting it so that the young Shard was forced to drop the dagger.
Just as he had anticipated.
‘Got you!’ he cried, pressing the Darkson’s own curved dagger against the man’s stomach with his other hand. The assassin blinked in surprise, and then his eyes widened in alarm. Cole had a small nick on his hand from where he had touched the blade while pilfering the dagger from the Darkson’s robes.
‘You idiot!’ the Shamaathan exclaimed. ‘Do have any idea what that blade is coated in?’
Cole hadn’t, but the intense self-satisfaction he was feeling at his clever ploy quickly evaporated as he stared at the cut on his finger. He let the assassin’s dagger clatter to the floor.
‘My chamber,’ said the Darkson quickly. ‘I have an antidote there. We don’t have much time.’
He sped off, sprinting through the doorway of the crumbling chamber and out into the corridor. Cole gulped, and then ran after him.
‘That was close. Manticore venom can kill a man within minutes. An excruciating death, I understand.’
Cole was lying on his back on a bedroll in the Darkson’s personal quarters. The section of the ruined city in which they were based appeared to have once housed Thelassa’s ruling priestesses. Enough light filtered down from the city above that he could make out the murals of the Mother in her many forms painted on the dilapidated walls of the ruins.
The black-skinned assassin had chosen a remarkably well-preserved chapel as his lair. The furnishings were sparse, with only a couple of bedrolls, a large chest, and some cooking apparatus occupying the chancel.
‘Manticores?’ Cole groaned. While the antidote had saved his life, the side effects were unpleasant and would last for several hours. The Darkson had not been pleased.
‘Exotic beasts possessing the head of a man, the body of a lion and the tail of a scorpion,’ the assassin replied. ‘Extinct for centuries north of the great jungles. Their venom is worth a king’s ransom in Shamaath.’ He sniffed and made a sour face.
Cole gave him an apologetic look. ‘What are you doing so far from the Kingdom of Snakes?’ he asked, if only to divert attention away from the smell. His stomach rumbled again.
The assassin sighed. ‘I am no longer welcome there. In fact, I would be killed on sight. I suspect there are assassins hunting me throughout the Sun Lands still, even after so many years.’
‘What happened?’
The Shamaathan grimaced, though whether because of the question or the next wave of unpleasantness that assaulted his nostrils Cole couldn’t be sure. ‘A familial dispute,’ he said. ‘A most unfortunate one, for my family is powerful and entirely ruthless.’ He reached around his neck and pulled away the black scarf that encircled it. Even in the poor light, Cole could see the ugly scar around his throat. ‘By their standards, a public hanging was charitable. Still, I was disinclined to accept their mercy.’
Cole shook his head. ‘Your family sound vile.’
The Darkson replaced the scarf and frowned at the fire between them. ‘It is the nature of Shamaathan society. The Trine does not seem much better.’
‘Salazar is a tyrant,’ Cole agreed. ‘He murdered an entire city. A crime he will one day answer for.’
‘And does the White Lady seem so much fairer?’ the assassin asked curiously.
Cole shrugged in response. ‘The people of Thelassa seem happy enough. There are no mindhawks in the skies or Crimson Watch thugs terrorizing the streets. I wasn’t happy about being locked up in the Tower of Stars,’ he added. ‘But I guess the White Lady wanted to be sure I posed no threat. I can’t say I blame her. Apparently I can be bad for a Magelord’s health.’ He grinned at his own joke.
The Darkson seemed to ignore it completely. The assassin went quiet for a time. ‘Things are rarely so simple,’ he said eventually. ‘You will learn that, as you become older.’
The man’s words confused Cole. ‘But you work for the White Lady,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the Darkson agreed. ‘She pays me handsomely. The coffers of Thelassa are deep indeed, and I require a great deal of gold.’
‘Why?’
‘Mind your own business.’
It was Cole’s turn to sit in silence. ‘How many men have you killed?’ he asked, when the lack of conversation became uncomfortable.
The Darkson looked at him. ‘About the same as the number of women you have bedded.’
Cole whistled to himself. ‘That many. I had no idea.’
‘I meant, for the second time, that you should mind your own business.’ The assassin sounded exasperated. ‘Enough talk. We have much to do. Can you cope?’
Cole struggled to his feet. His stomach still felt like he had an iron ball lodged inside it. Still, silent stoicism was the hero’s lot. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I’m a hard man.’
The Darkson appeared to grit his teeth. ‘You’re not a hard man,’ he replied in an annoyed tone. ‘You’re barely even a man. But I mean to change that.’
The Cleansing Fire
‘Shranree requests your presence, sister.’
Yllandris closed her eyes for a moment. It was time. She had not been looking forward to this. ‘I will be there shortly,’ she said, waving a dismissive hand in the mismatched face of Thurva. The short, girlish sorceress was the most junior member of the circle besides herself.
‘Shranree says you must come immediately,’ Thurva protested. She might have been irritated; it was hard to tell, what with the way her left eye seemed to be staring a hole in the side of her nose. Her appearance was almost comical, but Yllandris knew better than to doubt Thurva’s intellect. She had proved to be a shrewd and manipulative creature, ever eager to ingratiate herself with Shranree and the other senior sisters.
Yllandris sighed. ‘Very well. Wait a moment.’
The journey back to Heartstone had been considerably quicker than the trek in the opposite direction. They had lost close to a hundred men, many at the hands of the opposing circle, but overall the storming of Frosthold had been an overwhelming success. The proud town that had once straddled the edge of the Blackwater had been reduced to a blackened ruin scattered with the charred and butchered remains of its people.
Three nights had passed since the war party had arrived back in Heartstone. Each night, her dreams had been plagued by terrible images from the massacre: the face of the young sorceress from the Lake circle melting away to reveal her skull; Old Agatha’s brittle bones snapping under the clubs of furious rebels fleeing from the devastating magic Shranree had unleashed; three small pairs of eyes staring at her in abject terror, utterly helpless, while their mother perished nearby…
Yllandris felt her heart quicken and took a deep breath to calm herself. No one had seen her flee the ruthless slaughter that had followed their victory. At least, none of her sisters had learned of it. If they had, she would have been disciplined already. She remembered her momentary glimpse of the giant winged creature in the skies far above Frosthold, recalled the way its mere presence seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. Mentioning it to her sisters would only invite awkward questions. Better to say nothing.
The destruction of Frosthold had been a blood-soaked testament to the savagery of the Shaman’s will. An entire town of starving Highlanders had been put to the sword as punishment for rejecting the Treaty.