Shadowkings

by Michael Cobley

  "My lords?"

  Mazaret turned to see one of the Southerners, his expression downcast and nervous as his gaze flicked between them.

  "Master Peilon asked me to present our apologies as we must return to make ready our departure in the morning. An account of these events will have to be given to the Cabal council before any further decisions can be taken." He paused, shook his head. "Such a pity, my lords, a very great pity."

  Mazaret's thoughts raced as he spoke. "Good sir, thank Master Peilon for his noble sentiments and inform him that I would speak with him before he leaves tomorrow."

  "As you wish, my lord," and the Southerner bowed and left.

  Frowning, Bardow opened his mouth to speak but Mazaret cut him off with a sign for silence. When the last Southerner slipped off down the murky path, the archmage said, "Why? What is to be gained?"

  Mazaret paused to marshall his thoughts and frame an answer. "The sorcerous search for Suviel you undertook...can you perform another?"

  Bardow's shoulders sagged visibly and he sighed heavily. "Yes, my lord, if you so command me, then I can invoke the Spiritwing once more. For whom will I be searching?"

  Mazaret took in the sight of the now-deserted grove, an overturned stool, abandoned mugs and beakers clustered on the trestles, one vessel lying on its side in a pool of ale gleaming in the fading light of the pole lanterns. It was growing cold now and he shivered slightly.

  "You recall Volyn's mention of destiny," he said. "The Hunters Children's destiny, which can only be - "

  "Placing a living descendant of House Tor-Galantai on the imperial throne." Bardow looked straight at Mazaret. "That's who you want me to find, a man - "

  "Or woman - "

  " - or child, whose appearance we do not know, whose name is a complete mystery, and who could be anywhere."

  "Nevertheless, I want you to try. If I can convince Peilon and his companions that we may be able to...persuade the Hunters Children to stay with us, then success is yet within our grasp. But I have to know who and where this heir is."

  Bardow's gaze grew steady and penetrating. "And if I find him for you, what are you going to do with him? Take him hostage?"

  "Yes, to use as a bargaining piece."

  "Very well, my lord. I shall retire to my chambers and begin at once."

  A moment passed, two, and he was alone. A chill breeze filtered through the trees and the torches wavered and lessened slightly. He took a step in the dimness, which brought him right up to the tree stump, laid hold of the dagger and with a wrench tugged it free of the wounded wood, ripped parchment leafs still stuck to the blade. A nearby torch guttered lower and the tree stump seemed to bleed shadows into the encroaching gloom as Mazaret stumbled back along the path to a fire-lit bedchamber and a sleepless night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A stream wears and widens a crevice.

  A seed grows in a crack in a wall.

  A hot spark flies into dust-dry tinder.

  Suffering, anger and revolt,

  Bind the people to fate's wheel.

  —Letters To Cabringa, Anchal Gunderlek.

  With a junction of the ruined labyrinth just ahead, Tauric paused to regain his breath. Blood thundered in his head, and he felt swathed in sweat and body heat. The hilt of the practise sword was slick in the palm of his good hand so he dried it on a fistful of grubby shirt held in his other hand, his new right hand.

  Jointed steel fingers glinted in the muted morning light that came in through the tunnel's caved-in ceiling. Each finger had been meticulously engraved with the likeness of fingernail and skin creases, but time and the wear of combat had added innumerable scratches and pits to the metal surfaces. And now dust and grime streaked the metal limb up to below the elbow where a tight leather band hid the joining of steel and skin. It was easily cleaned - the Armourer had shown him how to use running water and brushes, then how to put on the full leather sleeve that would afford it some protection during battle.

  It had been a wonder, that moment when he looked down and saw this new limb for the first time, and in that moment he had believed that he would never again have to remember what Byrnak had done. But his dreams offered up a betrayal of that hope, and sleep seldom came easily.

  Tauric held up the metal hand and moved the fingers, clenching them in a fist. His control was still uncertain, even he could see it was so, which was why the Armourer insisted that he used his left hand as often as possible.

  Then he heard someone say;

  "I can hear the breath slowing in your mouth, and that means you've stopped. Too many of these mistakes and I'll have you."

  Suddenly alert and with wooden practise sword held ready, Tauric began creeping away from the voice and towards the junction. Dust hung in the air like a veil. These corridors were as wide as a cart and walled with rough planking now split and rotten. Sometimes he had to step over piles of rubble and earth beneath a grass-fringed hole in the ceiling, or beside a collapsed wall. He ignored the turn-off, a narrow opening stretching off into utter blackness, and continued along the main passage.

  In places the gloom was almost smothering and he swallowed hard as his thoughts grew fearful. A long time before, the Armourer had told him, long centuries before the rise of even the League of Jefren, followers of the long-dead Nightbear faith had built the underground maze as part of their mysterious rituals, perhaps as a place where trapped bears ate living sacrifices...

  After a few paces he paused, held his breath and with a quivering alertness listened. Nothing, no footsteps, nor creaks or the like, except for a faint hollow tapping -

  There was a massive crash and the wall next to him gave way in a cascade of earth, roots and rotten planking. Tauric leaped backwards in fright as a tall figure came towards him through the billowing dust clouds. Swiftly, Tauric regained his balance then turned and made a run at a nearby cavein, jumped for the sagging edge of the gap in the ceiling and hauled himself up and out. Rolling across long grass soaked with morning dew, he scrambled to his feet, scurried over to another hole in the ground and slid back down into the dimness.

  Crouched in the half-light, he listened to the hissing, clicking sounds of earth and stones trickling down after him. After a moment there was stillness with only the sound of his heart beating faintly in his ears. Then he heard the Armourer's voice, low and muffled as if from a distance:

  "An interesting tactic, boy. Instead of taking advantage of my momentary confusion, you fled. Be reminded that we are here to practise conflict rather than avoidance. Next time I expect you to stand your ground. Remember, the first to land a blow is the victor."

  Tauric nodded in weary agreement.Then he frowned - his father...no, the Duke of Patrein would not have decried his impulse to retreat. He could almost imagine the Duke saying something like 'experience counters the advantage of surprise' while regarding him with those piercing blue eyes and prodding the palm of his hand with a rigid forefinger.

  A sudden sense of sorrow and loss cut through him, sharp and irresistible. Sighing, he forced his mind back to the moment, burying his feelings under thoughts of combat, his strengths and his weaknesses. Deliberately, he hefted the practise sword in his flesh-and-blood hand, a bundle of yard-long cut rods bound to a heavier wooden shaft. While not at all lethal, it made a loud rattling bang when it connected and left throbbing bruises or welts on the skin, especially when wielded by the Armourer.

  He almost laughed out loud. The Armourer (who seemed to have no other name) was taller, heavier and faster than he, not to mention the man's experience with weapons of all kinds. When all the combat advantages lay with the enemy, what was left?

  The Duke's voice came back to him from memory - Guile, and ingenuity.

  Tauric leaned back against the wall planking, hearing it creak as he thought for some moments. Then he went over to a nearby heap of cave-in debris and dug and scooped aside handfuls of stony dirt until he came up with two lengths of wood not too ravaged by rot. One he shortened, sna
pping it with the use of two rocks, and with a narrow strip of cloth torn from the bottom of his shirt he tied it to the other as a kind of crosspiece. Then he took off his shirt, tugged it over the rudimentary frame, propped it against the wall and stepped back. His spirits sagged - to even the least discerning eye it would look like the contrivance it was.

  He shook his head. It doesn't have to be convincing, he thought. Just distracting for long enough.

  A scrape and a footfall disturbed the quiet, coming from the darkness beyond the grey patch of light below the ceiling hole. Tauric snatched up the shirt on its sticks and crept away with steady, careful footing till he came to where the passage ended in a T-junction. Then he scuffed his foot once in the dirt, loud enough to be heard, then crouched behind the corner and fumbled on the floor for a small pebble while peering round. It was not long before he saw a darker shadow move within the darkness, taking on form and detail as it approached - Tauric recognised the tall frame and broad shoulders of the Armourer, pale light picking out the metallic studs of his leather jerkin, one of his big hands gripping a practise sword.

  Tauric tossed the pebble across the junction into the lightless murk of the other passageway where it made a brief but audible noise. The Armourer went into a crouch, facing the direction of the sound, moving back to the wall and sidling along to the corner where Tauric waited.

  Gripping the frame and shirt, he stepped out, threw the decoy at the Armourer's head and dropped to his knees. He thought he felt cold air on the top of his head and heard the rattling impact of a practise sword hitting the wall as he swept his own round at the Armourer's legs.

  And struck home with a bang. The Armourer uttered an oath as Tauric rolled away. Clambering to his feet, he saw the man bent over, rubbing a reddening patch on his shin. For a moment there was a gleam of anger in his eyes, then he looked down and picked up the shirt on its sticks. He examined it for a moment, then gave a rueful chuckle and tossed it across to Tauric.

  "A decoy - I like that," he said, dusting his hands on his leggings. "But decoys seldom work twice."

  Tauric disentangled his now-filthy shirt and pulled it back on. "What if it's a better decoy? What if there's two?"

  The Armourer nodded. "This is what you will learn when you begin training with the troop." He held up his hand as Tauric opened his mouth. "Which will be soon, I promise. For now, we shall return to the holding and get your arm and the rest of you cleaned up for your tutors."

  * * *

  Above ground the air was icy and damp with the promise of rain. Tauric followed the Armourer through long, dewy grass up a gentle slope towards Barinok Stronghold, their breaths making pale clouds in the cold. The stronghold had once been a monastery dedicated to the Order of the Fathertree, which accounted for its heavily fortified appearance, sheer stone walls that encircled two adjacent hilltops and blocked the vale which passed between them. A long, high-sided building lay within the walls, a rambling, untidy-looking structure which had at some point in the past clearly been a keep and several other buildings, until something forced the occupants to rebuild it.

  The Fathertree monks must have felt at great risk of attack to go to such trouble, Tauric thought. Perhaps it was just after the collapse of the League of Jefren; that period was full of bitter wars and factional power struggles.

  Tauric could feel the first spots of rain when they reached the postern gate, a low, narrow door made from a single, foot-thick piece of blackwood fixed between iron plates and so heavy it took three men to crank the winch that lifted it out of the way. Once through, there was a rattle of chains and cogs and a thud that Tauric felt through his boots as the gate fell back into place. They climbed a flight of stone steps to a small room where three waiting guards bowed (but only to the Armourer, Tauric noticed).

  "Sire," said one. "I was instructed to inform you that Sentinel Kodel has returned, and that Steward Eskridan requires the immediate attendance of both yourself and the ward Tauric."

  The Armourer frowned. "I and my companion are not permitted to make ourselves presentable?"

  The guard looked uncomfortable, and Tauric began to feel uneasy.

  "Sire, the message was quite specific - you are to see him immediately upon your return to the holding."

  "Very well, we shall do the Steward's bidding." He looked at Tauric. "Follow me and stay close."

  They encountered few people on the way to the Steward's chambers, which lay near the top of the old keep. Most were servants but occasionally they met some of the Hunters Children in ones or twos, who saluted the Armourer as they passed yet left Tauric with the feeling that they were looking at him. Despite knowing that his imagination was to blame, his uneasiness grew as they progressed through the lamplit, cold stone quiet of the stronghold. His mind turned to thoughts of the Lord Commander's brother. On their arrival here, the last he had seen of Coireg Mazaret was a bound, hobbled figure being roughly led down to a lower level, 'the cages' as Tauric heard one guard call them. Since then, there had been neither word nor sign of the man.

  When they at last came to a tall, iron-banded door at the end of a passage, the Armourer seemed to pause for a moment before knocking. A voice bid them enter and the Armourer lifted the latch, leading the way in.

  The chamber was well furnished with wall hangings, patterned mats, cabinets and a polished, oval table, but what caught Tauric's eye was the debris scattered to one side of the hearth, splintered pieces of a chair and something else, a small stand perhaps. There were also two men in the room, one waiting nervously next to the table, eyes flicking down at a small scrap of paper on the unmarred, shiny surface while a taller man stood over by the high window, leaning on its sill. It was Sentinel Kodel. Without turning, he said:

  "My thanks for your prompt arrival, Armourer." His voice was level and relaxed, in stark contrast to the palpable tension in the room. "Matters have arisen which demand our loyalty and recognition of duty. Steward Eskridan, recite the message again."

  The Steward carefully picked up the scrap of paper and began to read.

  "Eskridan,

  Know that our alliance with the knights of the usurper is at an end. Never again shall our destiny and purpose be sullied by the deceits of odious plotters. I require you to order the immediate halt of all collaboration and the recall of those warriors involved thus. Employ whatever means you deem swiftest to communicate these commands. Also, the ward Tauric is to be escorted with all haste to Oumetra by Sentinel Kodel and a dozen riders. I shall be there to meet them on their arrival.

  These orders by my hand, this the 16th day of the Gather Moon in the 1109th year of the Empire.

  —Captain Volyn."

  The Steward let the paper fall to the table and in the silence that followed, Tauric's uneasiness turned slowly to fear. They were sending him to Oumetra, not back to Krusivel. There was a threat in the message - I shall be there to meet them on their arrival. Volyn he knew regarded him with suspicion if not dislike, so what was the man's intent in this? His mouth was dry, his new arm felt heavy at his side and his legs trembled under him, but he made himself stand steadily and betray no anxiety.

  "Events," said Kodel from the end of the room, "seldom happen as one expects." He turned from the window and approached the table. Tauric saw scratches and smears of blood on his hands and a smouldering fury in his eyes, and realised who had smashed the furniture.

  "I can have a troop of riders made ready whenever you wish, Sentinel," the Steward said.

  "That will not be necessary," said Kodel.

  "But the Captain's orders - "

  "The Captain's orders will be carried out," Kodel snapped. "I will escort the boy to Oumetra and the Armourer shall accompany me. No others are necessary - I am confident that our ward will follow my commands without question." He looked at Tauric. "Do I have your bond on this, as you have mine?"

  Tauric remembered the incident at the mill and Kodel's words after slaying the old man - I'm going to see you crowned Emperor if it
's the last thing I do.

  "Yes," he said hoarsely.

  "Good. Sir Steward - have three of your hardiest mounts harnessed and provisioned within the half hour."

  "As you wish, Sentinel." The Steward bowed and left and Kodel turned to Tauric.

  "Go to the bath house and get washed and dressed in journey clothes. When you return here, we shall have armour for you and perhaps even a blade?" He looked at the Armourer who glanced at Tauric and gave a half smile and a nod.

  "Yes. He's ready."

  As he left Tauric wondered how much danger he was getting into, now that Kodal seemed to have set himself against his own leader. He flexed his metal hand, trying to imagine a sword held tight in its cold grasp, but felt only a hollowness in his stomach as he hurried down the main stairs of the keep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beyond this tract of dream and fancy,

  Beyond the wrack of hate and death,

  Lies a far, sweet land,

  Where once I was a prince.

  —Jedhessa Gant, The Lords Desolate, Act 1, ii,9.

  The birdloft was warm, the air heavy with the combined odours of seed and droppings. Blade-thin shafts of noon sunlight slipped in through cracks between the timbers, piercing the gloom, outlining rows of wickerwork coops and the hunched-over figure who muttered to himself as he peered in at his charges.

  Bardow waited by the trapdoor entrance, fanning himself with one long sleeve, enjoying the occasional wafts of fresh air that came up from below. No matter how often he came here, the archmage always felt as if his nose were under assault and it took some moments for his senses to accustom themselves.

  "What was them places again, laddie?"

  Bardow allowed himself a small smile. Mecadri was from the Ogucharn Isles and never had been one for respectful terms of address.