‘Enjoy the bath,’ he said. Decado stripped off his travel-stained clothes and laid them on a chair, placing his scabbarded swords on top of them. Then he moved towards the bath. There was a mirror on the wall and his anger returned. Decado did not like mirrors. He could not stand to look at himself. The eyes always accused, as if the man in the mirror was someone else entirely. Someone who knew him, and, knowing him, loathed him. Almost against his wishes he stared back at his slender, naked reflection.
‘You do not deserve to live,’ the mirror man told him.
‘I know,’ he replied. Stepping forward he lifted the mirror from the wall, intending to smash it. Yet he did not. He had destroyed so much in his young life. Instead he placed the mirror on the floor, resting it against a table on which clean white towels had been laid.
Then he entered the bath. The warmth was welcome. The water was lightly perfumed. Decado sank beneath the surface, running his fingers through his hair, to wash off the dust. Then he surfaced, and looked around for some soap. He saw several small blocks in a wicker basket to his right. As he reached for one he froze. In the mirror he had placed against the table he saw the reflection of a crossbowman, stealthily moving from the door behind him.
The weapon came up. Decado hurled himself to his left. The twang of the twisted string came to him, just before the bolt splashed into the water. Decado heaved himself from the bath and rolled to his feet.
The crossbowman, a slim, dark-haired young man, threw aside his weapon and drew a dagger from his belt. Decado darted towards him. Even as he did so he saw the heavy drapes over the garden window drawn back, and another armed man ran in. The first assassin rushed forward, dagger extended.
Decado flung himself to the floor, swinging around to kick the man’s legs from under him. The assassin fell heavily, cracking his head on the marble floor.
Decado came up fast. The second man came at him. Decado leapt feet first, his heel slamming into the man’s chin, hurling him back. Rising, Decado ran for the Swords of Blood and Fire. Two more killers had entered the room. They were soldiers, and carried both swords and daggers. Decado drew his swords and ran to meet them. The newcomers were terrified. One tried to run, the other slashed his sabre at the swordsman. The Sword of Blood clove into his neck, severing the jugular and slicing through muscle, sinew and bone. The fleeing soldier had reached the door, but, as he pulled it open, the Sword of Fire plunged through his back. The soldier gave a gurgling cry and slid down the door. Decado spun. The second attacker was unconscious. The first groaned and tried to sit. Blood was smeared above his left eye, and flowing down over his right.
Decado ran to the drapes, pulling them shut, then moved to the injured man, pushing him to his back.
Resting the Sword of Blood against the man’s throat he said, ‘Who sent you?’
‘The Eternal has spoken the words of your death,’ said the man. ‘What choice did I have but to obey?’
‘You lie!’
‘I am not an imbecile, Decado. You think I wanted to come after you? The Eternal ordered me.
Personally. Unwallis was with her, and the Shadowlord.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Decado, stepping back from the surprised man. ‘She. . loves me.’
‘I don’t understand either,’ said the man, rubbing blood from his eye. ‘Are you going to kill me? Or can I go?’
‘Sit over there while I think,’ said Decado, gesturing to a chair. Moving to his clothes he dressed swiftly. Then he returned to the soldier. ‘What exactly did she say to you?’
‘I was summoned by my captain, and sent in to see her. She asked me if I was good with a crossbow.
I said I was. She said she wanted the death to be clean and fast. Then the Shadowlord said I was to cut off your finger and bring it to him. Don’t ask me why.’
‘I don’t need to. What happened then?’
‘Nothing,’ said the man, but he looked away.
‘Be careful, my friend, for your life depends on this.’
The other attacker groaned and started to rise. Decado stepped in, slashing a blade through the back of the man’s neck. The assassin slumped to his face, twitched once then lay still.
‘Oh, careful, is it?’ said the first man, his expression hardening at the murder of his comrade. ‘You won’t let me live anyway.’
‘Then you would have nothing to lose by speaking. You would gain a little more time. However, I am telling you the truth. Speak freely and I will let you live.’
The prisoner considered his words, then shrugged. ‘She said some stuff about you, Decado. Not complimentary. She told Memnon he’d made a mistake with you, and she didn’t want him repeating it.’
‘Exactly what did she say?’
The man took a deep breath. ‘She said you were insane, and she told me to forget the finger. We were to carry your body out into the garden and burn it to ash.’
‘Take off your clothes,’ said Decado.
‘What for?’
The Sword of Fire nicked a cut into the man’s neck. ‘So that you can live. Be swift!’ The man undressed. ‘Now get in the bath.’
The slim soldier looked nonplussed, but he slowly waded down into the water. ‘Good,’ said Decado.
‘Now come out, and pick up the two sabres your friends dropped.’
‘I can’t fight you!’
‘You don’t have to fight me. Just do as I say.’
Decado followed him across the room, to prevent any sudden flight. The naked man took up the two swords. ‘Now what?’
‘Now you can leave — through the garden.’
‘Without any clothes on?’
‘Alive, though.’
‘You’re going to stab me in the back.’
‘Just leave,’ said Decado, tapping the man’s shoulder with the flat of his blade.
‘Whatever you say.’
The man walked to the heavy drape and pulled it back. Then he opened the garden door and stepped outside. Something moved past him in a blur. He cried out and fell back into the bathhouse. Dropping the swords he began to crawl, but his body spasmed. A pale shape appeared in the doorway, large round eyes narrowed against the lantern light. Its thin face was corpse grey, and its lipless mouth hung open. A wide, curved single tooth jutted from its maw. It was stained with blood.
The Sword of Fire lanced out from behind the curtain, spearing through both the creature’s temples.
Decado dragged the blade clear, then walked back to the twitching soldier. ‘You are not dying,’ he said.
‘You will be paralysed for an hour or two. After that you will be dead. The Eternal does not appreciate failure.’
The man passed out. Decado stood silently, trying to think of what to do. The one joyous, true and perfect part of his life had been his time with the Eternal. Now she had betrayed him. Decado felt the pain of it, and a cold anger began. He considered striding through the palace and cutting out her heart.
Then he would kill Unwallis and. . Memnon?
The Shadowlord had been like a father to him, helping him with his pain, and his rages. And the soldier had said he wanted a piece of bone, and that could only have been used to bring Decado back.
Decado needed time to think.
Swords in hand he left the bathhouse. The gardens were empty, and he walked round the rear of the building until he reached the stable. There he chose a sturdy chestnut gelding, saddled it, and rode from the palace grounds.
The battle was short and fierce. Enemy lancers, some two hundred strong, hidden in the woods on the slopes of the mountains, had suddenly charged Alahir’s troop. They had obviously expected the surprise of their attack to disconcert the Legend Riders. The enemy were charging from the high ground. All the advantages were theirs. Alahir yelled an order and his fifty men coolly swung their mounts, and lifted bows from saddle pommels. The first volley sent horses and men tumbling to the ground. The charge faltered as the hurtling men behind the fallen swerved their mounts to avoid running down their own wounded. A second volley tore into them. Then a third.