Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Two - The Outsider

A layer of shimmering, velveteen frost had covered Deòthas by the time the light in the windows of house below winked out. The owner returned home shortly after eleven, but it had taken him far longer than she’s expected to retire. The bitter night-time cold had intensified in that time, so that the frost added silver edges to the shadowy black of her leather pants and jacket, and to the fraying edges of her cloak. She imagined the touch of white probably gave her a ghostly appearance, especially combined with her unnaturally pale skin and white-blonde hair, and the thought amused her. After all, it was her job to be as untouchable, as insubstantial as a ghost or a shade.

Slowly, cautiously, she eased her body away from the chill brickwork of the chimney she’d leant against for the last three hours. Her limbs were stiff from holding the same position for so long, but they’d loosen up quickly despite the biting cold. Gliding out of the shadow of the stack, she navigated her way quickly, sure-footedly, over the blue-black slope of the slate tiled roof, and when she came to the eaves she leapt silently to the deserted garden below. Her feet didn’t make a sound as they hit the ground, barely even bending the frosted blades of grass beneath her.

With the swift and soundless poise of an ethereal dancer, Deòthas launched her body into the air, leaping the six-foot fence which separated the garden from that of the house she’d been studying. That time she landed in a crouch, one leather-gloved hand splayed on the icy ground to steady herself. She kept her face lowered while she ensured the hood of her cloak was secure, shadowing and concealing her features so that no one would recognise her, even if she was seen.  She adjusted the claymore on her back, making sure its weight was securely strapped to her body before she made her next move.

She preferred wielding the stolen great sword over the etched short sword at her side, but it wasn’t always effective in the confined spaces of domestic properties. Her final weapon, her Comhairle issued sgian dubh, made a soft ‘shush’ as she slid it from its sheath and palmed the dagger, readying herself for what she intended to do. What she was obligated to do.

The house itself was a two-storey, detached building positioned in the dead centre of an overgrown and foliage filled garden. The property was large by British standards; not a palace but not an average three bed semi either. The owner must be of some means. But then her targets always were, weren’t they? The Manipulator always used the well off, gaining access to their funds and their influence in return for a promise of immortality... Dr Alasdair Howard was never going to be made immortal, though; not once he gave Deòthas what she wanted.

Making her way over the weed strewn gravel paths, she headed directly for the side entrance. It provided her with a weak point in the building's fabric, easily exploitable with its old fashioned wooden door and outdated lock. The mechanism would be easily picked with the tools Deòthas tugged from the holster at her hip.

She placed her dagger on the stone doorstep as she worked, where it would be in easy reached if needed, but where it left her hands free to gain entry. Really, people in the employment of dark creatures ought to defend themselves better. Her task seemed too easy, a waste of her skills. The Comhairle should have sent someone else rather than squandering her talents. But, of course, everyone else had wanted to stay in the compound, just in case the boy survived the trials.

If he did come out of initiation alive there’d be a party. If he didn’t... Well, then the Council would sit around mourning yet another wasted life. Too many had died recently, just an outward sign that the bhampair race had weakened. Not that any candidate could adequately prepare for the trials, even though most trained for months, years even, before applying. She doubted the latest young want-to-be-hero stood much of a chance either.

The door leaf swung inwards and she caught it before it hit the wall, ensuring her entrance remained silent as she replaced her tools on her belt and grabbed up her dagger. The need for stealth grew more apparent as she stepped across the threshold and the smell hit her, the pungent scent of decomposition giving away the presence of the dead, of the puppets which The Manipulator created from corpses of deceased humans.