Shadowkings

by Michael Cobley

  "Guldamar is dead - betrayed by cruel sorcery, then throttled..." He touched his own throat with a trembling hand. "I felt him try to reach us as the life...the life went out of him." He breathed in sharply, and reached to clutch at Mazaret's surcoat. "...a shaman! My master dealt with one of them, but how could we know that another was hiding himself from us..." Medwin shuddered, and seemed on the point of tears. "And poor Terzis...lend me your arm, my lord, I beg you. Let me see her and the Archmage."

  Sentries from the gate were trying to help Bardow and Terzis to their feet as Mazaret half-carried Medwin over to them. Terzis was sitting with her face buried in her hands, sobbing and refusing to stand.

  "Medwin told me that Guldamar is dead," Mazaret said to Bardow. "Is this true?"

  The Archmage looked ashen and weary. "I exhausted myself in battle earlier and I only felt the edges of whatever happened to Guldamar, but yes...I think that he is gone."

  "How could this be, Bardow?" Medwin said.

  Bardow seemed dazed. "I'm not sure. He would have been with Dow Korren, helping him find - "

  "Dow Korren?" Mazaret said abruptly.

  Then Bardow quickly told of how he tracked a shaman from the western walls to a townhouse where he engaged in a nightmarish struggle, and was saved by the intervention of Guldamar and Dow Korren.

  "He claimed that he and his colleagues had been taken prisoner, and that he had to find and release them." The Archmage rubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead. "I insisted that he took Guldamar with him, and now - "

  "Do not blame yourself for what that snake has done," said a voice. It was Kodel, with Tauric at his side. "His Northern Cabal has thwarted our stratagems on many occasions."

  Mazaret felt a surge of irritation at Kodel's presence, but concentrated on the urgency of the situation.

  "How much of the murder do you recall?" he said to Medwin. "Do you have the slightest idea of where it took place? Was it inside the town or outside?"

  "It is difficult, it was over so quickly..." The mage closed his eyes, put his hand to his chin and mouth. "...in the town, in shadows...shadows of a tall building - "

  "In the shadows of trees," said Terzis, and all eyes swung round to her. She now sat with head raised, her eyes staring into midair. "Tall, old trees, near a high wall - "

  "The north wall," said Medwin.

  "Excellent," Mazaret said. "We should find that with ease - "

  "The shaman," Terzis went on. Her voice had sunk to a low monotone, and she and Medwin had locked gazes. "He is full of fear, everyone, the betrayer Korren, their hired rogues - "

  " - their prisoner, in a wagon - " Medwin murmured.

  " - a young woman - "

  " - bound, gagged, drugged - "

  "Alael!" gasped Tauric.

  "Then he was dead," Terzis said, tears falling once again. Bardow came over and Medwin crouched next to her, and as Mazaret and Kodel shouted for horses to be readed and brought forth, the mages held hands in silent grief.

  * * *

  The ground outside the north wall of Sejeend sloped downhill to copses of wildapple trees and amberry bushes. A track followed the line of the ramshackle wall, forking before it reached the northeast corner, one branch continuing eastwards to join the main road to the north, the other dipping into a bushy gully before climbing into densely wooded hills and the cloaked mass of the Rukang Mountains beyond.

  At a point not far from the fork in the trail, two riders waited, staring down at the mingling of footprints, hoofmarks and cartruts which had churned the damp ground some time before. All the footprints issued from a ragged-edged doorway in the town wall, the layers of mortar and stone that had blocked it now reduced to rubble.

  A hooded figure emerged from the doorway, brushing away strands of climbing wallthorn. Bardow pushed back his hood, looked around and frowned.

  "They've still not returned?"

  Upon his horse, Medwin shook his head while next to him Tauric opened his mouth to speak, only to be forestalled by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Bardow turned and saw Mazaret and Kodel riding up from the gully path. When the band of companions first reached this place, Kodel had quickly seen the wagon tracks and traced them to the darker of the offshoot paths. Both Mazaret and Kodel had set off in pursuit, accompanied by more than a dozen mounted knights, yet now they were returning alone. Bardow let his concern show in his face as the two men reined in their horses before the others then dismounted.

  "We almost had them," Kodel said without preamble. "They led us a merry chase up and round that hill to a wide bridge across a mountain river. From there, it was a steep climb up a mountainside – "

  "There are a lot of old mines up there," Mazaret added. "Someone must be working some of them, as the cart road had been maintained recently."

  "The road goes high into the mountains," Kodel went on, "and is hewn from sheer walls of rock. We came round a sharp bend and found ourselves staring into a great gulf, as if a giant had torn a deep cleft in the mountainside. The cart road follows the curve of it all the way round – looking across, we could see horses and a wagon moving along, and their riders gazing back at us."

  "Then the mountainside above us broke away," Mazaret said. "It missed us by a matter of feet, but it crashed into the road and swept it away."

  "The shaman," said Bardow.

  "Just so," Mazaret said. "We descended with all speed to the bridge, where I sent my knights downstream to search for another crossing and to see if they could pick up Korren's trail again. Then we two returned."

  Bardow sighed, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "So, is it fair to say that the girl will be taken to Besh-Darok? Ser Kodel, what say you?"

  Bardow noted a slight frown on Mazaret's face, then was intrigued when Kodel looked uncomfortable for a moment before replying.

  "It can be their only destination - the Acolytes there will be most eager to examine her."

  An unspoken horror filled the lengthening silence.

  "We have to save her," Tauric said suddenly, his face flushed with emotion. "We can't let them harm her - "

  "Lad," Mazaret began. "You don't know what you're saying..."

  "We must stop them!" Tauric shouted down at him, now angry. "We must go to Besh-Darok and take it by force!"

  The youth held his mount's reins clenched before him in his metal fist while staring angrily at Mazaret, and Bardow felt a chill go through him at this sight. The older man seemed about to say something, but he visibly held himself back, for which Bardow was relieved. Then another spoke in composed, matter-of-fact tones.

  "The heir is right. We must attack Besh-Darok and save the girl from the Acolytes. There is no alternative."

  Kodel was calmly feeding fragments of pocketbread to his horse as he said his piece, and affectionately stroking its muzzle. Next to him, Mazaret just stared, fury steadily showing in his features. Before Bardow could speak, the Lord Commander began to clap slowly.

  "Congratulations, ser Kodel. You return to your obsession with immaculate timing. How unfortunate that the size of our combined armies would not suffice to breach one tower on the great battlements of Besh-Darok. Yet perhaps that is all that you require to satisfy your twisted honour - one final, glorious defeat!"

  In the face of this outburst, Kodel remained curiously unperturbed, and regarded Mazaret soberly. "I repeat - we have to seize Besh-Darok and keep Alael from falling into the hands of the Acolytes. You forget the plans we have long prepared, and our deep knowledge of the city's defences - we can do it. We must do it, because we have no choice."

  "There is always a choice," Bardow murmured.

  "And I choose 'no'," said Mazaret.

  "But why is this girl of such import?" said Medwin, glancing at Bardow. "The Lord Commander told me that she is a powerful, if unschooled mage - is it worth risking everything we have gained this day to save a girl, even is she is a mage?"

  "Medwin, there is much you are not aware of," said Bardow. "As well
as possessing more than just a touch of the Lesser Power, Alael also happens to be the direct descendant of Coulabric tor-Caverill."

  Medwin's face paled. "In the name of the Mother..."

  "There is more," Bardow said. "There is another reason why the Acolytes want her in their power, one which I'm almost certain only ser Kodel is aware of." Kodel offered a wordless, wry smile as Bardow continued. "And that is the reason, Ikarno, why ser Kodel is right."

  Mazaret's stare was full of resentment, and the Archmage pushed on, knowing what had to be said. He had recovered some strength since the terrible sorcerous battle earlier, but not enough.

  "Wait, let me explain. There was a secret at the very heart of the dynasty and kingship of the Empire - direct descent from the line of Orosiada conferred great potential and abilities - " He glanced at Tauric, almost apologetically, " - with a very few exceptions. But there was a secret rite, a blood ritual conducted after the coronation ceremonies which forged a link between the new emperor or empress and the realm of the Fathertree. Through this ritual the full majesty of the Rootpower was revealed and he or she took on a true, life-long affinity with all the lands of the empire."

  He paused, fingering a broken twig of wallthorn, then nodded to himself and went on. "The blood ritual, the Vraoleach Dor, involved a sacred object called the Motherseed. I've never seen it, but my master, Argatil, described it as roughly egg-shaped, as long as the upper arm, with the look and texture of old, dark wood but the weight and coldness of solid stone." He glanced at Kodel. "Would you agree?"

  "Our knowledge of it is less detailed, save that the Motherseed was said to be the size of a man's fist."

  Bardow shrugged, then faced Mazaret. "The enemy went to a lot of trouble to capture Alael and get her out of Sejeend, and if we know about the Motherseed then the Acolytes will inevitably know as much if not more than us, given that Besh-Darok has been in Mogaun hands for sixteen years. Ikarno, who can tell what they are planning for Alael, but we can be sure that the consequences will not be good. So we must attempt to rescue her - it may not be necessary to seize Besh-Darok in its entirety, but we must do whatever is required. I am filled with dread for what might happen if we do not act, else I would not say what I have said."

  * * *

  Mazaret stood stock still, his anger dissolved away by Bardow's words. Instead, he felt as if a great burden had been placed on his shoulders while a hollow trepidation spread through him. From the memory of a score of battles and half a hundred skirmishes, it came back to him, the recognition of that old wordless animal fear of chaos and death. And how much worse was it now, with the crushing finality of what they now faced. Thinking over all that had gone before, it seemed that a terrible inevitability had driven them to this place, this moment, this decision.

  And still the full tide of evil is yet to come against us, he thought in private despair. Can we hope to stem such a deluge? Have we the strength not to break before our weapons?

  He breathed in deeply, then one by one looked at all his companions.

  "We must do what we must do," he said simply. "We will go to Besh-Darok."

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Now this accursed power stirs,

  And not even death will bring peace.

  —Avalti, The Song of Dreams

  "Tell me about the Realm of Ruin," said Keren, sitting on the tunnel's sloped, uneven floor, staring coldly back at the shimmering barrier through which she had so recently passed. "Tell me again."

  "Once it was the Daemonrealm, home to those that the Lord of Twilight first raised up from the Great Lake of the Night, a gift from his hands. A long world it was, majestic halls stretching away, towering columns and cambers in shining black and silver and glittering stone. There were chambers for birth and death, for talk and sleep, for eating and fighting. The air was pure, and the light came in red, amber and gold from living statues." There was a pause. "I saw none of this. Dissidents and schismatics among my ancestors opposed the Lord of Twilight's purpose here in the Realm Between and actively worked against Him, aiding his enemies, the two apostates.

  "On discovering this betrayal, the Lord of Twilight's response was swift, overwhelming punishment. Where his hand passed, only destruction remained and the glories of the Daemonrealm were shattered. I and my forebears were born amongst rubble and the fragments of splendour, yet our loyalty has never wavered, and our resolve to rebuild our Realm remains undimmed."

  Keren felt cold to the core, as if her flesh and bones were made of things dragged from the bed of the ocean. How many Wards of the Ordeal have I passed through? she wondered. How many times have I been remade? She gazed down at the pale skin of her hands, examined them, tried to remember holding swords, spears, shields....

  "Who are the Shadowkings?" she said. "What do they want?"

  "They are fragments of the Prince of Dusk, splinters of his greatness who plan and scheme with masks and swords and lies. Armies march for them, but antipathies exist - each wants to possess the might of the Lord of Twilight without giving up their petty selves. And yet they must, for a cup cannot contain an ocean. Till then, the Daemonkind shall withold their aid because we do not serve those who themselves are servants."

  She laid her hands on the floor of the tunnel, pressed down on the rough stone. It seemed almost warm to the touch and she could feel the deep, intricate sorceries which permeated this part of the Oshang Dakhal. Old power, subverted by still-older powers. "Is the Rootpower completely dead?"

  "All that remains is a broken dream. Kekrahan was how we named the Realm of the Fathertree; it is a near-lifeless desolation and will in time fade to a memory of a memory in the long, slow thoughts of the Void. Without the Fathertree and the Rootpower, opposition to the Lord of Twilight's unbridled might will never again be ordered or prevailing."

  "What do you know of the war?"

  "It is scarcely worth the name. The Imperial remnants and their few allies stumble from one ill-conceived skirmish to the next, and now they intend to attack Besh-Darok and prevent the Acolytes there from carrying out the Vraoleach Dor upon the descendant of a long-past deposed emperor. Yet even if they do capture Yasgur's citadel, and rescue the girl, it will avail them nothing - the Shadowkings will come against them with a great army and the flock of nighthunters which the Acolytes are awakening far above us. Defeat shall be total, and there will be no quarter."

  Images came to her, dim chambers where masked servitors watched over terrible winged shapes stirring fitfully from sleep. Was she seeing what he was seeing, or what he was imagining?

  "What is the Crystal Eye?"

  Hesitation. "A gift to mortals, one of three donated in a long-forgotten age. From then it passed through the hands of those who knew little of its potential and those who knew too much. It has both aided kings and brought about their demise, and has been the downfall of more than one empire. Sometimes the Eye is venerated, other times loathed, but always it stirs fear, be that fear of its powers or the fear of not using it. In Orosiada they were well-balanced - after using the Eye to send me back to my own realm, he founded the mage communities of Trevada and passed it into their safekeeping. And when the Mogaun hosts invaded a thousand years later, the mages' fears sealed their fate."

  "Why do you want the Eye?"

  She could feel the weight of his compelling gaze, but remained where she was, sitting, waiting.

  "The Acolytes have little or no use for it, and the Shadowkings regard it as a mild nuisance held safely out of the reach of any mage. Yet it remains a source of the Lesser Power, which would be invaluable in rebuilding the glory of the Daemonrealm. When we emerge from the Ordeal, in the heart of the Basilica, the Eye shall be mine for the taking."

  "What of me? - will I be alive or dead, or worse?"

  "Do not mistake the destruction of flesh for the death of the spirit. I have strengthened your essence with my own, and repaired whatever damage your form suffers, sufficient at least for the purpose of pass
ing through the Wards."

  The flesh of her face was cold, her arms, her breasts, her midriff, everything, cold and unresponsive. She wanted to cry but could not.

  "And when this is all over?" she said shakily. "What then?"

  "I shall remake your body exactly as it was, so you may better determine your fate. Then, if you desire, you could take on our form, become one of the Daemonkind and return with me to our realm. Your essence has already gained much from our alliance, so the potential is already there."

  Keren felt an echo of revulsion. "If not, will I ever be rid of you?"

  "Never." Faint amusement in the voice.

  She got to her feet and faced the Daemonkind Prince. Orgraaleshenoth's spectral form almost filled the tunnel, even crouched as he was and leaning against the wall.

  "Do you know what slavery is?" she said.

  "Neither the word nor the idea exists among us. There is only strength and honour, and purpose and obedience."

  The cold amber eyes stared down at her and after a moment she looked away, despairing. No-one can save me from this, she thought. All I have is obedience...

  She sidled past the great form, and walked away up the tunnel towards the next Ward. In a single movement she pulled her long shift over her head, tossed it aside and, naked, broke into a run. Dark laughter came after her, the Ward's deadly shining veil loomed and she threw herself into it.

  * * *

  After the steep climb up the gulley path, Bardow paused on the more level ground of the ridge to regain his breath and gaze down at the coastal town of Adranoth. It was a cold, cloudy night and the sea stretched away eastwards into a wide, engulfing darkness. There were a few glimmers of light from fisher steadings dotted along the coastline towards the rearing cliffs of Thoiranar Point where some dedicated soul yet maintained a ware beacon for mariners. Down in Adranoth torches and lamps were burning everywhere, especially in the taverns and taphouses where heated discussions were taking place in reflection of the talks still going on in the town's great Guildhall.

  Bardow shook his head, recalling some of the comments, curses and cliches which had been exchanged, and made his way further along the bushy ridge. A certain group of individuals had arrived earlier that evening and had been waiting impatiently upon him for nearly three hours.