He tried to imagine what he was going up against: taller, stronger, certainly faster and more skilled… Mark wasted little time convincing himself that he was not about to get badly beaten, perhaps even killed. And if it was a creature with magical powers, like the almor, or the wraith that had so changed Sallax, then he had no resources to tap.
Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on how he might fool his quarry into leaving Steven unattended long enough for them to disappear into the underbrush. He had never felt less brave in his life.
Jacrys approached from above the tree line. He had worked his way around their camp and moved out onto the exposed slopes of the hillside before descending silently, a predator in the night. He knew the old man rarely slept, but even a Larion Senator would need some rest after the pace they had been maintaining, especially with the tricky slope awaiting them the next morning. He used a cloaking spell which made him virtually invisible, even to Gilmour, and was so close he could smell meat roasting above the campfire. They were discussing the foreigners’ disappearance; they had been tracking one all day, and were about to follow his path over an uncharted peak to the north. The woman, Brynne, was concerned their detour had taken them too far east, that they would have to retrace their steps to find passage to Orindale.
Jacrys was tired. He was tired of climbing peak after peak, tired of finding no real opportunity to complete his mission. He was tired of focusing solely on one kill. He was not a murderer by nature; he thrived on espionage, on the analysis and evaluation of situations and information, the political, economic, emotional and religious factors that influenced human behaviour. Travelling for days at a time with just one goal – and that simply murder – was boring, and exhausting. He might be about to kill the most powerful man in the occupied lands, but he would rather have been in a smoky tavern exchanging silver for news, or eavesdropping on a rogue Malakasian officer as he shared state secrets with a whore. Jacrys was adept at violence when necessary, and certainly not squeamish, but this was different. There was a point of no return for the nations of Eldarn, and he was about to push the entire world beyond it. With Gilmour dead, only the seldom-seen Kantu would have the knowledge and power to rival the dark prince, but it would not be enough. Malagon would rule unchecked until the end of his days.
Jacrys closed his eyes briefly and ground his teeth together until his jaw ached. Malagon’s family had ruled for nearly a thousand Twinmoons. Would it really matter if Gilmour died now?
Peering through icy brambles, Jacrys watched as the Ronan partisans prepared to turn in for the night. This was it: he would finally do away with Gilmour and win his freedom from Malagon’s continuous scrutiny – that was an uncomfortable place to be. Too many otherwise talented soldiers, spies, magicians and political figures had died without warning just because they had been under his watchful eye. Steven Taylor, the one with the key Malagon wanted so badly, was gone, disappeared after the rogue bull grettan attacked their camp. At least he had taken the deadly staff along with him. That was one less potentially life-threatening variable to contend with. The other was the bowman; he wouldn’t be able to flee quickly enough to avoid the young man’s lightning-fast bowfire, so he needed to disarm the young killer first.
Garec was posted to the first watch. He propped himself up against a tree trunk near the old man. Perfect. It wasn’t long before the bowman’s eyelids started to flutter, evidence of his losing battle to remain vigilant. When Garec’s chin slumped onto his chest, Jacrys drew two knives and moved slowly through the thicket towards his prey, thanking the gods of the Northern Forest for the blanket of snow muting his approach.
As he reached Gilmour’s side, the Malakasian spy hesitated for a moment. Prince Malagon was a cold, cruel and dangerous man, devoid of compassion or empathy. He killed without warning, and appeared to care little for the wellbeing of his Malakasian citizens, let along those of the conquered lands. Gilmour was a legend, the protector of the ideal that all people should be permitted to live in peace, free from fear and want. Could he actually kill this man? He was under no illusion of what would happen if he did not: he would be summoned to Welstar Palace and tortured for a Twinmoon or two, and then – if he were very lucky – he might be allowed to die.
The waning firelight illuminated Gilmour’s silent profile in a warm yellow glow. What would come of killing this man? Poverty? Civil unrest? The collapse of the Resistance movement in Rona? Most likely.
But Jacrys would escape, he would find a niche somewhere. Glancing at Brynne’s form, shapely, even beneath her blanket, he imagined he might even find happiness. He was resourceful, enormously so, and he would make his way as far from the coming conflict as possible.
As long as he did his duty, and emerged unscathed, he would survive. He wiped his forehead with his tunic sleeve, then raised his dagger to strike.
Jacrys slammed his arm down with all the force he could summon. The blade’s tip caught for the briefest moment in the thick cartilage over the breastbone, then plunged hilt-deep into the old man’s chest. There was a thin snap; it sounded like a pine knot exploding in the dying embers of the fire. The old man’s eyes flew open, a look of absolute terror. He drew breath to scream, but all he could manage was a gurgled, shuddering groan.
Jacrys felt his hand slide down the knife’s grip and come to rest on Gilmour’s chest. He was suddenly overcome by surprise. A look of genuine perplexity passed over his face: Gilmour, the legendary leader of the Larion Senate in the Twinmoon of its collapse, the most powerful man in Rona, was nothing stronger than flesh and bone. He was human. There was no great release of deadly magical force, no explosion of mystical ancient power. No brilliant burst of colourful flame radiated from the site of the old man’s now-mortal wound.
Rather, Jacrys’s knife slid smoothly into the old man’s heart and stopped it a breath or two later. Gilmour Stow was dead.
Lucid again after his unexpected moment of empathy, Jacrys did not pause to enjoy the fruits of his labour but turned and lashed out with the second blade towards Garec. The groggy bowman woke with a start, but he was too slow. Reflexively he tried to use the tree trunk to deflect the knife. Its edge reflected firelight and glinted in the air as it whistled past Garec’s throat and up over his shoulder.
But Jacrys was not intent on killing Garec; as his blade found its target the Ronan’s bowstring gave a sharp, punctuated cry and Jacrys quickly sprinted into the woods, disappearing before anyone could gain their feet.
Garec began running almost immediately, but the attacker was too far ahead to track down in the dark. Surprise had served the man well. Garec cursed loudly into the night as he gave up the chase and turned back towards camp.
As he approached through the trees, he saw a shapeless lump, rimmed by firelight, rocking slightly back and forth on the ground. Finally he recognised Brynne, and ran the last few paces into camp to join her. She was cradling Gilmour’s head in her lap, sobbing in anguish against his chest, her thin body wracked periodically as she drew short, raspy breaths. Sallax, his lips pressed flatly together, stood nearby, staring at his sister. He showed no emotion. Garec dropped to his knees, but he did not need to find Jacrys’s knife protruding from Gilmour’s breastbone to know the old man was dead.
*
‘Good night, Hannah – and please don’t worry. I know we’ll find him tomorrow.’ Hoyt waited for the door to close before he turned to Churn. ‘I saw him. I saw the mule-rutter there at the tavern.’