"Die, child of earth!"
The glowing blade was rammed into the man's side. He made a choking sound, seared head trembling, wide eyes staring down at the laughing disciple. Then he brought the long dagger down in one, smooth, hammering cut that severed the green-eyed head and silenced that tongue. The man released the dagger, and stared down at his hands for a second before sprawling limply on the ground.
"Da!" Gevran cried out behind Suviel, and suddenly he was running over.
"The others!" Suviel shouted. "Gilly, quick, take their heads!"
The trader shook his head, snatched up his sword and swung at the exposed neck of the nearest disciple as he was getting to his feet. Keren forced herself upright, and staggered after the third disciple who was slowly crawling towards the forest. With a two-handed grip on her blade, she finished the grisly task.
Suviel ran over to Gevran, grabbing his hand just as it was about to close on the hilt of the sword buried in his father's side.
"No! It's bane would poison you, child."
"But it's in him!" the boy wept. "Da..."
"Gev..." whispered his father. "...Gev, don't..." He coughed, then stared at Suviel. "Are they..."
She nodded. "How did you know how to kill them?"
"My brother..." He grimaced with pain. "...was with Gunderlek, escaped the siege of Rauthaz. He told me before he died. Took an arrow in the shoulder, arrow like this...hellblade." He reached out to clasp the boy's arm. "I've cousins in Beharis, lady. See him safely to them, I beg of you in the Mother's name." His other hand dug hard into the ground at his side and his eyes looked into the distance. "His songs were so beautiful, made us so...happy..."
Then his hand relaxed and his head sank back, eyes lifeless. Gevran held on to the other hand, weeping. Suviel let out her breath in a long sorrowful sigh then noticed Keren standing nearby, still unsteady on her feet and rubbing her ears.
"Can you hear me?" Suviel said, getting up.
Keren nodded. "A little."
"Watch over the boy for a moment," she said. "Don't let him touch that sword hilt, and don't you either."
The swordswoman nodded and Suviel walked towards the temple, beckoning Gilly to follow her. By the red glow of its burning huts the village seemed to be drenched in blood, as if for a while it had become the personal realm of some god of torment, a domain of pain. There was little doubt in her mind that the three red-clad disciples had derived their powers from the Wellsource, but when their leader had talked of this Ystregul she had sensed nothing but utter, single-minded conviction.
She frowned. What had he said, about the Fiery Tree being the one who was betrayed at the Plateau of Arengia? Was this some perversion of the Fathertree faith, created by this Ystregul to feed off the despair of ordinary people? Prophet, the disciple said, and Shadowking. What did that mean?
Then the inside of the smouldering temple came into view and all thoughts fled at what she saw and heard.
"They come, Fate's performers."
She heard a sharp intake of breath from Gilly who whispered a name:
"Avalti!"
"No more, Cordale's scion. An eye in the inferno, and what things I see!..."
A man had been bound neck, chest and legs to a wooden spar jammed into the cracked centre of the domed Earthmother altar at the rear of the temple. But the altar was being steadily consumed, its stone dissolving into the flames which swathed the man called Avalti in a flickering emerald veil. His form seemed unharmed, his garments untouched, but his eyes were unblinking orbs that swam with bright colours. As he stared out at them, Suviel could not be sure if he was in agony or ecstasy.
"Yes, I...I see a snake with two heads in deadly conflict. I see a beast chained, I see a hollow Lord waiting to be filled, I see..." The many-coloured gaze sought out Gilly, "I see an iron fox, eyeless to the hunt—" then Suviel, "—a frozen bird, trapped under ice," then looked past them, "—and a broken sword discarded."
Without looking Suviel knew that Keren was standing behind her. Shaken and filled with dread, she raised her hand. "Be silent! We do not wish to hear you - "
"I must speak!..." An unanswerable anguish filled his voice. The altar was almost gone and as his clothes began to scorch and smoke, his mouth widened in pain. "I see five become one, I see the triumph of power, I see a growing desolation, I see one become two..." The wooden pole was black and eroded and the raging fire was eating at the body of the man called Avalti, with everything below his chest already gone.
"I see the world, sunk in eternal night..."
Then flames rushed into his open mouth and he screamed. In seconds all that remained of him was a shapeless blazing mass that dwindled away to nothing. Green flames shrank, guttered and went out, and the wooden pole disintegrated, ash falling on the charred temple floor. Suviel shuddered and turned away to see Keren standing a few feet away, the boy Gevran huddled close to her.
"What did he say?" Keren said. "He looked straight at me and spoke, but all I heard was a strange roaring sound, like a river far off."
"Nothing of importance," Suviel said, as if she believed it. "He was driven mad by evil sorcery." Ignoring the swordswoman's skeptical expression, she went over to Gilly who sat on a staved-in barrel, staring at the darkened, gutted temple.
"Was that really Avalti?" she said quietly.
He nodded. "I heard him sing at the High Day of the Orders in Adnagaur, about a year before the sword fell upon us all. I thought he was dead." He uttered a bleak laugh and rubbed his face. "'An iron fox, eyeless to the hunt' - what does that mean?" There was a desperate note in his voice. "The fox is my family's emblem. What was he trying to say?"
All around them, the last of the fires were going out. In the smoky silence the village seemed almost asleep.
"Put his words out of your mind," Suviel said. "He was in the grip of the Wellsource and it gives forth nothing but lies."
But the worst lie she knew was the one that was half a truth. A frozen bird, trapped under ice. Wujad's Pool.
So which half was true, and which half was a lie?
Chapter Eight
The chains of the King,
Make of us all an empire.
—The Book Of Parodies
The meeting took place in the Realm of Dusk, beneath a sulphurous sky, in a sunken dusty depression filled with sleeping armies. Wearing the suit of bright, spine-adorned armour once more, Byrnak rode along a wide aisle past ranks of wains and war machines, cavalry and chariots, soldiers and beasts, a panoply of warriors in their scores of thousands, all standing motionless and facing inwards. A faint, warm breeze made banners and flags sway limply and brought odours of leather and iron to Byrnak's nose. Beyond the edge of the bowl-like depression loomed a huge, tower-ringed citadel: a second one was just visible as a grey silhouette in the far distance. A deadening silence hung over the bowl, broken only by the sound of his mount's hooves and the desultory flapping of small pennons.
As he rode, a sense of recognition hung at the back of his mind, just beyond recollection. He saw brutal, fur-clad savages armed with clubs and spears; creatures like huge wolves rigged with leather harnesses; tall, black-maned warriors carrying red iron longswords; mounted soldiers with hooded warbirds on their shoulders; knights with horned helms and jewelled battle axes; regiment upon regiment of men and women caparisoned for war, a poised and waiting host. It was all familiar, he knew, familiar to that part of himself that had once been a god. He pushed the familiarity away. I am myself, he thought angrily, not the shard of a hungry ghost.
For a second, Byrnak imagined that he heard distant, brittle laughter, then realised it was just horse harnesses swaying gently in the wind. Still, he shuddered.
Four figures on horseback waited at the centre of the great array of hosts, four Shadowkings. Three wore enclosing armour, while the fourth was swathed head to foot in black and red robes.
"He is the Black Priest," said his steed.
Byrnak smiled humorlessly. This was only the seco
nd time he had joined with the Acolyte Obax in order to enter the Realm of Dusk, and while the invasive nature of it was no longer repellent, it still made him uneasy. While he could now command the kind of sorcerous power spoken of in stories and legends, that same power had taken something away from him. He could spread fire among his enemies, he could send spikes of ice raining down on their heads, he could turns foes into servants, alter flesh and minds and purposes, yet he himself no longer felt invincible. The ignorance that had given him certainty was being steadily dismantled by fate, by power, and by the undying knowledge buried within him.
Eight heads, four in helms and hood, four horselike, turned to watch his arrival. Byrnak guided Obax to a halt before them, leaned back and regarded them through the eye-slits of his own helmet, then indicated the surrounding motionless hosts with a sweep of his gauntleted hand.
"What is this?" he said.
"A god dreams," said the Black Priest.
"Our dream," added one of the others with a chuckle.
"Not my dream," Byrnak said curtly, then on impulse unfastened his heavy, ornate helm and lifted it off. Free of the stuffy darkness, he shook his black hair loose and blinked against the sudden yellow glare of the sky.
"What do your dreams show you?"
From within the red folds concealing his face, the Black Priest's voice was deep and rough, full of restrained animal savagery. Byrnak grinned.
"Death," he said. "Everywhere."
"Enough," said one of the others. "There are decisions to be made."
Byrnak recognised the voice. This was the one who had done most of the talking during that first shattering encounter. According to Obax, he called himself the Hidden One while the other two armoured riders were named Thraelor and Grazaan. And now that he was this close, he could see subtle differences in the armour that they wore. The Hidden One's helm was engraved with serpents and lizards. Another bore images of tentacular sea creatures (...Thraelor... whispered Obax in his thoughts), while the third was decorated with spiders and scorpions (...Grazaan...). Byrnak glanced down at his own, resting on the saddle - fangs and talons, horned beasts, snarling.
"Death will be everywhere," murmured the Black Priest. "My disciples have already begun - "
"Yes, begun spreading useless terror," interrupted the Hidden One. "Drawing unwelcome attention to our strategy."
"The Whore-Mother's influence must be eradicated," said the Black Priest.
"In time," the Hidden One said. "Once our army has fulfilled its purpose." He turned to Thraelor. "Stir that mount of yours, brother. What progress has been made in gathering the ones we want?"
Thraelor dug his heels into his grey steed's flanks. "Answer!"
The horse's head swayed slightly from side to side for a moment before coming up, corpse-white eyes staring at nothing, open mouth drooling.
"Lordzzz...the Acolytes have delivered the commands and all, almost all of the warchiefs obey and are marching to northern Khatris-"
"Almost all?"
"...Oscarg, a mountain warlord in Anghatan, refused the command."
"Oscarg is powerful," muttered Thraelor. "He's been a thorn in my side for years. What has been done to correct this upstart?"
The horse made a rhythmic grating sound which Byrnak suddenly realised was laughter. "Even as I speak, a flock of nighthunters are converging on his stronghold. We anticipate that his son shall depart for Khatris with a sizeable force before the next day is done."
"Excellent," said Thraelor. "It is time the chieftains were reminded of the power of their god."
"What of the Daemonkind?" Byrnak said suddenly.
Four heads tilted his way. The Hidden One chuckled quietly within his helm.
"The Acolytes, these half-blind servants of ours, have on our behalf tried to attract the Daemonkind's attention." He prodded his mount in the neck. "But with mixed results, eh?"
"The lair of the Daemonkind lies deep in the Realm of Ruin," droned the horse. "Of the ten Acolytes who undertook the mind-journey, only three returned with their faculties intact. Four did not return at all."
"And was there a reply?"
"Yesss, there was a...reply: 'We serve - we do not serve the ones who serve'."
"Did none of you think of making the mind-journey yourselves?" Byrnak sneered. "Or were you afraid of getting the same answer?"
There was a tense moment of silence, then the Hidden One said, "You have the right of it. The Daemonkind will only respond to the command of the Lord of Twilight, and none of us have that power or even that strength of will."
"The Daemonkind are not necessary for our immediate purposes," said the Black Priest. "The Mogaun tribes will be sufficient for the battle to come. And my disciples."
"However," Grazaan added, facing Byrnak, "we need a general to command our army. You would be the ideal choice."
"Why not you?" Byrnak said warily.
"Thraelor and I have committments in the north, while our priestly brother will be fully occupied in dealing with the accursed rootpower mages."
Byrnak looked at the Hidden One. "And you?"
"I have a delicate task to perform which requires my undivided attention."
The Black Priest uttered a guttural laugh. "When will we discover who and where you are, brother? Will we gasp in delight, or curse our foolish trust?"
"Trust is all," the Hidden One said evenly. "Together we shall have everything; apart, we would gain little more than scraps of greatness. Your trust in me is not misplaced, brothers, I swear."
The Black Priest grunted noncommittally, while the others nodded. The Hidden One turned back to Byrnak.
"So," he said. "Will you be our general?"
Byrnak stared at the serpent-adorned helm then smiled. "What forces am I to command, and what is our purpose?"
The serpent helm nodded in satisfaction. "Our army will be several times that of our enemy, but our purpose is quite unique. Now, brother, listen..."
* * *
Awakening from the Realm of Dusk was a descent into suffocation. On that plain of hosts, existence had a quality that was at once dreamlike and pure; here, sitting at this long heavy table before a crude, massive hearth, he could feel the squalor of everything around him, the dust in the air, the dried mud on his boots, the smells of wood and damp tapestries, even the odour of stale sweat from Obax who sat opposite, head resting on his arms. The filth of it all was engulfing, yet somehow pleasing.
Byrnak smiled. Chair legs scraped on flagstones as he stood and went over to the huge arched window overlooking Choroya's Court of Muster. From behind him came a quiet rustling as Obax stirred.
"Lord, are you well?"
Byrnak gazed impassively down at the lifeless bodies strewn about the Court, and the lone weeping figures stumbling among them. A stench of smoke and blood rose to him.
"You may go," he said. "Send in my captains."
As Obax walked unsteadily from the great hall, Byrnak turned from the window, crossed to the dais and kicked a ragged shape that lay beside the throne.
"Get up."
The former Warlord of Choroya and southern Honjir, levered himself to his knees then stood slowly before his conqueror. Azurech was a tall man but he cringed before Byrnak, his once-proud features marred by a broken nose and slack with dread. For a second he met Byrnak's gaze then, trembling, looked down at the floor.
An agonising scream came from out in the court and reverberated around the great hall. Byrnak cocked his head and smiled.
"Are you ready to serve me, Azurech?"
Head bowed, Azurech moved his mouth as if struggling to frame words. Then: "What...do you want of me, lord?"
Byrnak leaned in close, grasped the defeated warlord's chin and forced him to look up.
"Everything," he said.
He stared into Azurech's eyes, thrusting his own awareness into the other's mind. Ruin and despair grew there like black jungles on a swamp of fear, fear of Byrnak and his power. How easy it was to turn the fear into
loyalty, and the dark tangles into determination and purpose that grew strong and true towards the bright, life-giving light that was Byrnak, warlord and Shadowking.
He released his grip on Azurech who now stood straighter, his shoulders level, his eyes fixed devotedly on his master. Then the doors of the great hall swung open and three leather-armoured men entered, harnesses clinking and bootheels echoing noisily as they approached. Byrnak turned to regard them.
"I am leaving very soon," he said. "In my absence, your commander will be Azurech. I may be gone for several weeks but my hand will be upon you all - Azurech's will is my will, his eyes are my eyes, so you will remain vigilant and obedient."
The three captains glanced nervously at each other, then nodded. Byrnak let a sneer curl his mouth. These three displayed more volition than he cared for, but then he had bound them to him five days ago when his power to dominate was unpractised and crude. For a moment he considered tightening the bonds, then decided against it, curious to find out how they and Azurech would work together.
"These are my orders," he said to the former warlord. "Secure this city, root out any agitators and execute them, draft seven in every ten males over sixteen into a new city militia, have all traders register with a single merchants guild, and begin repairs to the walls and fortifications. Oh yes, and keep supplying rations to the refugees for another week then round them up and drive them south into Kejana. Then have those shanty towns demolished. Execute anyone who resists."
"As you will it, lord," said Azurech with a bow.
"Now get out," Byrnak muttered. "And find yourself garments suitable to your new station."
He waited till Azurech and the three captains were gone then walked round behind the throne, through a curtained arch to a large room dominated by a long table and adorned with banners, spears and shields. To the right a stair led upwards, wide and winding, its blue and grey stones carved with leaves and vines. At the top he came to a large, circular tower room. There was only one window, its shutters firmly shuttered, its walls hung with rich tapestries depicting scenes out of battle and legend.
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