Shadowkings

by Michael Cobley

  Shadowkings

  Copyright © 2001 Michael Cobley

  All rights reserved.

  Published as an ebook in 2014 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. Published in 2001 by Earthlight, an imprint of Simon & Schuster UK.

  Cover design by Dirk Berger.

  ISBN 978-1-625670-99-1

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Epilogue

  Also by Michael Cobley

  Acknowledgements

  Dedicated with love to my parents,

  John and Patricia Cobley

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Honour the dead, for they are many and we are few.

  —The Book Of Earth And Stone

  In a high mountain valley, under the looming, starless canopy of night, campfires burned amid ancient ruins. Men, fighters all, sat or kneeled close to the flames, muttering, eating, joking, throwing dice. Off to one side, at the foot of a shattered, mossy pillar, two figures sat either side of their own fire. One was a lean-faced woman who frowned as she ran a small whetstone along the sabre that lay across her knees. The sleeveless leather jerkin she wore half-open was battered and scarred, yet carefully patched, much like the down-at-heel boots that lay on the ground nearby.

  Her companion was a black-haired bear of a man, cloaked in heavy furs which only partly concealed a dented chestplate and mailed leggings. In a big, scarred hand he held a black bottle of wine but it seemed half-forgotten as he stared with amber eyes into the heart of the campfire. Flakes of ash whirled up into the cold, unforgiving night and an occasional spark flew across to land on the man's exposed hands. He appeared not to notice, just sat there with a gaze that was dark and steady, harsh as granite, sharp as a naked blade.

  A burnt-through branch slumped into the centre of the fire. The flames quivered, sank a little lower. Keren Asherol paused from honing her blade, looked across, then shook her head.

  "You're brooding again," she said mildly.

  For a moment, no reply. Then: "Warhounds should think of the hunt, not the hunter."

  His voice was deep, with no trace of weariness, the words well formed.

  "More dreams, eh?"

  Byrnak, Warlord of Northern Honjir and Protector of Bidolo, drained the wine and tossed the bottle away. He gave her a surly, hooded look. "Even the finest warhound can become a burden."

  Keren met his gaze. "I think the word you're looking for is 'warbitch'."

  A glittering, dangerous smile creased Byrnak's features. "A bitch who is lucky to have such a benevolent master." Reflected fireglow gleamed in his eyes and cast a sulphurous tinge across his face. "And what of you? - are your own slumbers tranquil?"

  "Of course," she lied, resuming the sharpening of her sabre. Across the fire, Byrnak gave a derisive snort and went back to the flames.

  Keren had last shared Byrnak's bed willingly six months ago, when it was spring and his brutal attractions had not palled. Since then she had preferred the solitude of her own bed, and the known hazards of her dreams. It was sixteen years since the Battle of Wolf' Gate but the horror and slaughter of it still crept up from the well of memory to fill her nights with rage and guilt.

  Heat from the fire prickled her bare skin and heightened the numb ache of a scar on her lower right arm. A shaft of moist mountain air blew through the vast ruined antechamber where they sat, bringing smells of high wood and bush, earth and bark and rotting leaves. Then the wind shifted direction, drifting to her the odours of cooked meat and the sounds of the men clustered round their own fires. They were a strange mix, mostly rootless rogues from Honjir, Jefren and Anghatan, with a few odd ones like Yanama, a marsh raider from Ebro'Heth, or the daggerman Erruk from the moors of northern Yularia. There were no Mogaun, however. Keren listened to the quiet laughter and snatches of flutesong for a moment, smiled, then turned her sword over and began to work the other side. Once into the rhythm she glanced at Byrnak again - his stare was as unwavering as before, but now there was a kind of haunted anger to it.

  What do you see? she thought. What do you fear?

  Byrnak was a living mystery. Ragtalk among the men placed him variously as a lost prince of the Imperial blood, a renegade Rootpower mage, a black sorcerer from the Erementu hinterlands, or even a formless monster from the Rukang Sagas, returned in human shape. When pressed, he claimed to have been an iron mine slave, a pit fighter, and a chief's bodyguard in Rauthaz before a misjudgement with a battlestave caused him to flee south. It was so prosaic it could almost be true.

  Byrnak let out a breath of noisy impatience, rose and went over to the saddlebags piled carelessly at the foot of one of the massive pillars. Keren watched him pull out another black bottle, uncork it with his teeth and take a hefty swig. Then, bottle in hand, he prowled around the crumbling antechamber, pausing occasionally to study a worn inscription or relief carving or to pick away a patch of dark moss. These were ancient ruins, perhaps from the time of the Jefren League, but there were still older ones littering these mountains. Keren once overheard a Fathertree priest tell a mage that kingdoms, conquerors and empires had washed across the continent of Toluveraz like waves on the shore. She had thought that an exaggerated comment at the time, but her wanderings since had shown her that there was something to it.

  Suddenly, Byrnak uttered a vile oath and hurled the bottle against a crumbling wall. Dark wine splashed across the ancient stones and the muted chatter of the men faded away, their uneasy eyes glancing his way.

  "Where are the scouts?" he snarled, hands clenching and unclenching. "Haven't they found that bastard scum Shaleng yet?"

  Shaleng had been Warlord of Northern Honjir until two years ago when Byrnak and a band of dedicated followers infiltrated his stronghold outside the city of Kizar. Byrnak became the new Warlord, but Shaleng had escaped into hiding where he had gathered a gang of cutthroats and rapists whose increasingly daring - and bloody - raids were undermining Byrnak's authority.

  "You're the one who taught them," Keren muttered sourly. "It's bound to take a little time..."

  In one swift motion Byrnak stepped towards her, snatched the sabre out of her lap by the hilt and threw it point-first into the heart of the fire. Keren jerked away from the scattering of sparks, sprawling on her back.

  "Gainsay me to my face once more, woman, and I'll kill you."

  The savagery of his stare burned into her skull. He seemed to tremble with contained fury and a for momen Keren thought he was going to strike her. Then there was a commotion from out in the ruined hall and he looked up, breaking the terrible spell. A slender, black-clad youth dashed in and fell to his knees before Byrnak.

  "My Lord, we have him!"

  Byrnak stared at the youth with a joyful intensity and reached out to stroke the youth's brown curls. Keren kept her face blank, hiding her revulsion.

  "Falin, my little hawk - where?"

  The youth's face glowed with adoration.

  "At the village of Wedlo, Lord. The raid began less than an hour ago."

  Byrnak's grin was rapacious and with his hand still resting on Falin's head he looked at Keren.

  "Take the second and third companies, cut off their retreat and any avenues of escape. I'll take the first and deal with Shaleng personally."

  The camp was suddenly alive with activity as orders were given and fires were doused. Byrnak brought Falin to his feet and they both went off to one side. Keren rose and grasped the sabre's hilt, pulling it free. The leather-wound hilt was hot from the fire, embers still clinging to the blade, and for a moment it seemed that flames were coming from the blade itself. Then she knocked the sword against a blackened stone at the fire's edge a
nd the embers fell away. "Captain?" said someone nearby.

  No more, Keren thought, staring at her sabre. No more.

  She turned to see Domas and Kiso, captains of the second and third companies, standing there. "Have all the scouts returned?" she said.

  Domas smiled and nodded. "All safe, all back."

  "Then ready the men. We've a hard night ahead."

  As they hurried off she bent to pull on her boots, then took a rag from her belt and wiped the ashen smears from her sword before sheathing it at her waist. She was aware of Falin and Byrnak staring at her from across the ruined chamber but ignored them, buttoning her leather jerkin as she followed the captains out to where the horses were being harnessed and saddled.

  There's nothing for me here, she thought bitterly. Why do I stay?

  * * *

  They rode down from the Nagira Mountains like vengeful wolves. A cold steady rain was falling, turning the ground muddy, but their mounts had been bred for war and none slipped or stumbled. Wedlo was a small town squeezed between densely wooded hills and the north bank of the Dreun which coursed southwest into central Honjir. Once they had reached the hills, Keren sent Kiso and the second company to approach from the woods, with orders to eliminate any guards they encountered. As Kiso and his men slipped away through the trees, Keren continued northeast with the third company.

  By the light of hooded lanterns, she and one of the scouts led her thirty riders at a canter along a narrow forest path. The attack would have to be fast and savage, yet coordinated: they would have to seal off the north road, seize the wharfs, then move into the town itself. And it would have to be soon for in just a few minutes Byrnak and his men would come charging in from the south. "Be there," had been his last words. "I don't want to have to do all the work myself." Keren cursed under her breath, wiping rainwater from her face with her free hand. Ahead the trees and foliage were thinning and the lights of Wedlo were becoming visible, a scattering of lampglows and an ominous funnel of smoke and sparks rising from the town's centre. The scout, a short, wiry Dalbari called Paq, turned, his waxcloth hood dripping, and raised a finger to his lips. "Slow," he whispered.

  The order rippled back along the column as he pointed out a shack just near the town's north entrance and another over at the riverbank.

  "Sentries?" Keren murmured.

  Paq nodded, holding up three fingers. Keren detailed Domas and another six to take care of Shaleng's guards but no sooner had they dismounted when a warning shout went up from away to the south. The voice cut off suddenly with a choking scream, but the damage was done - figures emerged from the shacks with lit torches and more came running from the town.

  "Damn Kiso," Keren muttered, then ordered the company to head straight for the town. There were the sounds of blades drawn from scabbards as the riders turned and moved through the trees. Once out on open ground they formed up in attack pairs and charged the waiting guards.

  After that it was a desperate whirl of blades as Keren's riders, some dismounted, pursued Shaleng's cutthroats and hunted for the bandit chief himself. Keren found herself cornered by a swordsman and a spearman working in unison. The swordsman slashed at her horse's face and she managed to catch the blow on her boot while parrying a thrust from the spearman. But her parry lacked force and the spear glanced off her mailed leg and gashed her horse's neck. The beast whinnied in pain and reared. Fighting to bring it under control, she made a stabbing slash at the spearman and caught him in the throat. As he went down in a spray of blood she turned to see death in the form of the swordsman's blade arcing towards her unprotected side.

  Then a rider came charging out of nowhere and knocked him flying. In reflex Keren had begun to lean away but she still felt a cold sting as the sword's tip caught her upper arm. The swordsman tried to regain his feet but was cut down by the rider. It was Domas, helmetless, his blade dripping red.

  "Where's that cretin Kiso?" Keren snarled.

  Then, at the far end of town, she glimpsed Byrnak's company, hard-pressed by a superior number of bandits. Gathering those still on horseback she led a charge at their rear. The surprise attack scattered them, and as the riders chased them down, Keren realised suddenly that Byrnak was missing. When she questioned one of Byrnak's company he simply pointed over at a large, four-storey house whose upper windows were leaking smoke. "He's in there … with Shaleng."

  * * *

  She wheeled her horse and galloped across. She was almost at the house's tall double doors when a tall man with a long, single-edged axe jumped up from behind some stacked barrels and rushed at her. He made to swing at her but tripped so that the axe bit into her horse's head. Uttering a ghastly scream the beast collapsed under her, blood jetting from its cloven skull. Keren scrambled clear of its thrashing hooves, regaining her feet in time to face her attacker. It was Shaleng.

  "Slut!" he shouted, his long-jawed face contorted with fury. "I needed the horse alive, not you!"

  The heavy battleaxe seemed as light as a walking stick in his big hands. He spun it in a blurring figure-of-eight then aimed a swift crosscut at her midriff. Keren leaped backwards then ducked to avoid a second blow to her head. She snatched a handful of dirt, tossed it up into Shaleng's face and came up to shoulder-charge him. Choking, the bandit-chief staggered back but managed to grab Keren's jerkin, pulling her off-balance. Half-blinded, he swung at her as she stumbled forward, but she kept her feet, parried the axe and slid her sabre along the wooden haft and into his hand. Shaleng let out a roar of agony and the axe flew from his bloody grip. Without hesitation Keren plunged her blade into his throat and he died at her feet.

  Gasping for breath, swaying where she stood, she looked up and saw Falin the scout staring open-mouthed. Muscles ached and the wound in her arm stung as she bent and picked up Shaleng's axe. It was a Mogaun-forged piece, its heavy haft carved along most of the length, its blade bearing cruel, tearing hooks at top and bottom.

  "Here," she said hoarsely. "Take this to your lord and master...no, wait, I'll give it to him myself."

  She had reached the steps at the front of the house when the doors were thrown open and Byrnak stepped out. He assessed all that had happened with a single glance.

  "So you took my prize for yourself, woman."

  "I had little choice in the matter," Keren said, tossing the axe at his feet. "But if Kiso had done as I'd ordered - "

  "Yes," he said. "I know about that." He reached down behind him and dragged a body out onto the veranda. Handless, footless and dead, it was Kiso. "The fool thought I might die without his aid." He gave the corpse a brutal kick, then grinned at Keren.

  "But that's not all," he went on. "Look at what else I found." He turned to one of his men. "Bring out our new pet!" A slight figure, a young man naked from the waist up, was thrust forward and Byrnak casually threw him sprawling on the veranda. Keren immediately noticed the filthy blue breeks he wore.

  "A Rootpower priest," she said numbly.

  "That's right, Keren, my lovely - the last of a dying breed, but soon to be extinct, eh?" Byrnak's malicious laughter was echoed by the crowd at his back. "They were getting ready to torture him, but I decided to reserve that pleasure for myself."

  Keren turned away. The moans and cries of the wounded came from all around and the air stank of blood and smoke. Across the town square, one of their riders was despatching the dying of both sides with a spear. Others were looting what freshly-harvested grain and roots the villagers possessed. More laughter came from behind her and she heard Falin join in from nearby.

  She took a kerchief from her jerkin pocket and tried to clean her sabre. But the blade was bitten and notched and tore the cloth, leaving it in rags.

  This is death's realm, Keren thought emptily. And we are its ragged people.

  Chapter Two

  Prayers are like smoke or water - they either

  vanish without trace or feed what is unseen.

  —The Book Of Stone And Fire

  The birth was going
badly.

  For at least the tenth time that night Suviel Hantika wished she could find within herself a shred, the merest glimmer of Rootpower to help heal the suffering woman. From the frail mindbond she had already made, she could feel the awful pain of torn inner tissues and exhausted muscles. But all she had was the Lesser Power, sufficient only to dull the worst of the woman's agony while praying that she would live.

  Pray? Suviel thought bitterly in a corner of her mind. Pray to who or what?

  Shouts and fearful cries from the street outside filtered through to the tiny, shuttered back room, but Suviel kept the circle of her concentration pure and unbroken. The muffled, savage sounds told of another beating, robbery or murder, familiar evils in a city which had changed hands twice in as many months.

  There was another contraction. The woman let out a gasping moan and Suviel fought to keep her self separate from the torment. When the midwife and the other crones looked pleadingly at her, Suviel masked her weariness and bent closer to the woman's ear. Stroking the sweat-beaded forehead and neck, Suviel murmured the thought-canto of Subdual. The half-words circled in her mind, things of smell, sound, texture and enigma interlocking with themselves and her own being. Shared with a patient, it was meant to coax the natural healing abilities into working harder.

  The Lesser Power began to chime softly through her mind and she could feel calmness edging into the woman's turbulent awareness, slow as a tentative dawn. But the waves of pain were so intense, so full of the dreadful damage taking place, that Suviel began to feel ghost twinges in her pelvis. She ignored the echoes and reached deeper into her own physical and mental resources, pouring her own vitality into the Subdual canto.

  Exhaustion crept slowly, inexorably upon her. Her arms grew heavy, her breathing shallow, her throat dry and aching. Yet while part of her was absorbed in the ritual of the canto, another part became aware of the details of her surroundings: the yellow glow from the wall lamps; the old women, small hooded figures clutching Earthmother amulets; the midwife, a tall, bitter woman who had once been a Khatrisian aristocrat; the pregnant woman and the scrap of life, a boy, that was struggling to be born. Across the room, in shadow, was the woman's despairing husband, a standard-bearer in Gunderlek's ill-fated rebel army; family friends had smuggled him into the city, past the Warlord Azurech's guards.