Dahlen looked fearful — terrified even — but Mandel could have hugged him. At his back were three of the fiercest looking men Mandel had ever seen, but they were his men. Loyal to the core. Ready to give their lives for him.
‘Come, my lord,’ said Dahlen. ‘We must hurry.’
Mandel didn’t argue, following his equerry out into the corridor. The three bodyguards surrounded them, two at the front, brandishing their swords warily, one at the back, an axe in his ebon-skinned hands.
As they moved through the manse towards the only entrance gate, Mandel was met by an appalling scene. The bodies of his men lay sprawled about the place amongst broken furniture and smashed ornaments. Blood daubed the walls, corpses stared blank-eyed and it was all Mandel could do to avoid their accusatory gaze.
With racing heart, Mandel moved through the house with his men until they reached his feasting hall in the centre of the building. There were no windows here, the only light in the chamber coming from the ornate candelabras that lined the room.
A sudden groan drew Mandel’s eyes through the gloom to where one of his guards was propped against the wall. Blood was oozing from the man’s mouth, and his hands were holding in a sausage-string pile of entrails that hung from his slit guts.
‘We’re nearly there, my lord,’ said Dahlen, sounding as panicked as Mandel felt. The equerry turned to give a reassuring smile, but instead his eyes widened in terror. Mandel spun round and saw that the bodyguard bringing up their rear was no longer there.
Something cut the air swift as an arrow, and with a clang one of the candelabras tumbled, extinguishing its candles and plunging part of the room into darkness.
The remaining bodyguards brandished their weapons, but found nothing in the shadows. Still Mandel moved up beside Dahlen and the two men clung to each other in fear, at any moment expecting a horde of savage cut-throats to come rushing from the black and hack them to pieces.
Another clang, and a second candelabra fell. The room darkened further. Something moved to Mandel’s right and without hesitation one of his bodyguards stepped bravely towards it.
Behind them the second bodyguard grunted and lurched forward, a knife buried in his back.
‘Good gods …’ cried Mandel, but never got to say more before the final candelabra toppled to the ground, plunging the chamber into total blackness.
Mandel clung to Dahlen for dear life as they stumbled through the dark, towards the far door and the main gate of the manse. And all the while Mandel clutched his lute, feeling his heart beating, wanting to scream, wanting to beg.
Ahead of him Dahlen fumbled in the shadows, a door handle turned, a latch snapped opened and there was sudden light. Mandel all but fell over his equerry in his haste to leave the blackened chamber behind him, and they both staggered out into the reception hall.
Mandel turned, expecting an assassin to come rushing at him from the dark, but it was his last bodyguard who staggered forward through the doorway. A bloody stream welled from a great gash in his throat. He did not walk far. Dahlen screamed with terror as he pulled Mandel after him and across the chamber. The reception hall in Mandel’s manse was magnificent to behold, constructed to demonstrate the opulence of his home and the wealth he bore. Marble pillars filled the room, hewn to resemble vast tree trunks with vines twisting about their pure white boughs. The walls were lined with mirrors, making the room seem truly enormous, but Mandel had no time to admire his reflection now. The mirrors only served to multiply the corpses strewn in Mandel’s path.
‘Almost there, my lord,’ Dahlen gasped as they reached the front door of the manse. The equerry fumbled with the ring full of keys at his belt until he found the right one to thrust into the lock. Mandel’s fear began to subside with the prospect of escape.
Dahlen flung open the door, revealing the courtyard beyond and the main gate at the far end. It stood open; in its shadow two dead guards lay awkwardly in pools of their own blood. But Mandel made no attempt to run across the courtyard. He stood stock still as he felt the cool metal of a blade press itself to his throat.
As he turned, Dahlen’s eyes widened with terror. He could see the assassin and the knife held to his master’s throat.
‘Dahlen?’ said Mandel, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted his equerry to do.
Then a voice, so close that Mandel could feel the breath of it on his neck. ‘Run away.’
Two simple words in the Teutonian tongue. Dahlen stared for the briefest moment as though he couldn’t believe his luck, then he began to move away.
‘Dahlen, don’t leave me here,’ begged Mandel, but his equerry was already stumbling across the courtyard.
‘I am truly sorry, master,’ he cast over his shoulder as he fled through the gate.
Mandel stared in terror as his ‘faithful’ equerry abandoned him to his fate.
‘Close the door,’ whispered the voice.
With his free hand, Mandel pushed the large door of his manse closed. In the other he was still clutching the black wooden lute, though he doubted it would do him any good now.
Once the door was shut, the assassin removed his knife from Mandel’s neck. ‘Turn around,’ he ordered.
Mandel turned slowly, wondering what kind of monster Amon Tugha had unleashed. He was certainly not expecting the youth that faced him. Though his clothes were drenched in the blood of Mandel’s men and one side of his face was marred by a crisscross of scars, he was not the beast Mandel had imagined. The assassin was barely more than a boy, his features strong and, despite the scars, handsome. But when Mandel looked into his eyes he saw no mercy there, no remorse. They were eyes that had seen death on a scale Mandel could only dream of and he knew he was staring into the face of his killer.
‘Get on with it then,’ he said, sick of the waiting. He would not be toyed with, not be made to suffer further. If he was to die it would be on his own terms. He had not risen to such a level of wealth and power by being craven every time he was threatened with death.
The assassin, however, shook his head. ‘No, Mandel Shakurian. I have not come here to kill you.’
Then what? You’ve come round to bandy words over tea and sweetcakes? Because I’m not sure murdering an entire cohort of my bodyguard was quite necessary if you have!
‘I don’t …’
The assassin fished inside his grey tunic and, in a hand slick with blood, produced a piece of parchment. ‘You will sign this,’ he said, offering the paper, ‘or you will have this.’ In his other hand he showed the well-used blade. There was little doubt as to his meaning.
With a quivering hand Mandel reached out and took the dog-eared piece of vellum. He scanned the neat script, written in the Merchant’s Cant of the Eastern Lands. It contained the particulars of their original promissory note to Amon Tugha, detailing the fleet of ships they would provide, the mariners set to sail them, the artillery they would transport and the mercenaries to use it. At the bottom of the paper, scrawled in red ink by shaky hands were four other names — the surviving four Lords of the Serpent Road — Lyssa of Tul Shazan, Lord Kurze, Halcion Graal and Javez Al Kadeef. Of the remaining lords, only his signature was missing.
‘But …’ Mandel didn’t know what to say. He had been the first to suggest they stand up to the Elharim tyrant, but it was obvious his fellow lords had all succumbed to the warlord’s persuasive messenger.
‘You will sign this, or you will have this,’ the assassin repeated.
Mandel stared at him, into his young face with those cold eyes that spoke an experience beyond their years. For a fleeting moment he wondered if this was one of Amon Tugha’s Elharim assassins, an immortal killer from the far north. Not that it mattered. If this was only a man it was clear he could kill Mandel just as dead as any immortal.