‘Take away the beard,’ suggested Wulf.
‘The beard’s fine,’ insisted Mace, ‘but he is too stocky. The man was a swordsman, long in the arm, well-balanced. Make him taller.’Horga, they agreed, was spectacular. I did not tell Mace that I based her on the image Megan had showed me of herself when young, glorious of face and slender of figure.
On the first performance, in a small river town in the shadow of the Rostin Peaks, I received a fine ovation, but the audience wanted to see the great battle that destroyed the Vampyre Kings.
It irked me that I could not oblige them. Rarely have I been able to sustain more than a few distinct and moving images. Instead I chose to show Rabain’s fight in the forest with the Undead assassins. I stumbled upon the best technique almost by accident; I believe it is still used by magickers today.
At first I had Rabain fighting a single opponent, a vile white-faced creature with long fangs and a black cloak. Mace found the scene risible.
‘He doesn’t look Undead, he looks half-dead,’ he said, chuckling. ‘And so thin. Your audience will have sympathy only for the assassin.’I was deeply irritated by this observation. But he was quite correct.
‘Have more attackers, six or seven,’ he advised.
I tried – I thought unsuccessfully. But the reaction from Wulf and Mace was extraordinary. They were transfixed by the scene. What had happened was that I could not retain detail in all six assassins and therefore they became blurred and indistinct, their cloaks swirling like black smoke, unearthly and unreal. This, in turn, made them demonic and terrifying.
Mace schooled me in sword-fighting techniques my Rabain figure could use against his attackers, spinning on his heel, reversing his sword, diving and rolling to hamstring an opponent. All in all it was a fine fight scene, and I used it to conclude all my performances.
I earned more coin during our few weeks in the north than in all my time in Ziraccu. And I almost forgot Azrek and Cataplas . . .
But, of course, they had not forgotten us.
One morning, just after dawn, as we lay sleeping in our beds in a small hut on the edge of the village of Kasel, a young boy ran inside, shaking Mace by the shoulder.
‘Soldiers!’ he screamed. Mace rolled to his knees and fell, then staggered upright. He had downed enough ale the previous night to drown an ox. Shaking his head he kicked out at the still sleeping Wulf; the hunchback swore, but soon roused himself. Piercollo, Ilka and I were already awake, and we gathered our belongings and followed Mace out into the trees.
The thunder of hooves came from behind us, but we darted into the undergrowth and slid down a long bank out of sight. The
twenty or so soldiers left their mounts in the village and set off after us on foot. Wulf was contemptuous of them at first, leading us deeper into the trees along rocky slopes that would leave little sign for our pursuers. But as the day wore on they remained doggedly on our trail. We splashed along streams, climbed over boulders, zig-zagged our way through dense undergrowth. But nothing could shake the soldiers.
‘Are they using sorcery?’ asked Wulf, as dusk fell.
‘I do not know,’ I answered him, ‘but I do not think so. If there was an enchanter with them they would have caught us by now. I think they must be accompanied by a skilled tracker.’He is certainly good,’ grunted Wulf grudgingly. ‘Let’s be moving!’On we travelled, coming at last to a steep slope curving down into a dark valley. Wulf traversed it, then made as if to lead us back the way we had come. Mace ran alongside him.
‘Where are you going? That’s where they are!’I know that!’ snapped Wulf. ‘I’m going back to kill their scout.’Let’s just get down into the valley,’ said Mace. ‘There will be plenty of hiding-places there.’No! I’m not running any further.’What the devil’s the matter with you?’ roared Mace. ‘We can’t take on twenty men.’I’m not going down there.’Why? It’s just a valley.’I’m not going there, and that’s all there is to it,’ answered Wulf.