‘I did not use my magic in the arena,’ I replied truthfully. ‘However, before I arrived here I used it quite legally in order to reclaim my purrai. It is my right. It is an expression of what I am!’
‘We cannot forget what you have done – you haizdas must be taught a lesson. It is nothing personal – just an exercise of power to maintain our rule. Eblis, foremost of the Shaiksa, will come after you; he will be armed with the Kangadon, the Lance of Power.’
‘The trial has exonerated me and allowed me to go free, with my purrai acknowledged as my own. In sending an assassin after me you act illegally!’ I hissed defiantly.
‘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.