Shadowkings

by Michael Cobley

  They had left the wide plains of Kalen behind as the road curved through the wooded hills west of the city. There were many small towns and hamlets scattered throughout these hills, some of which Gilly knew from his travels in Mazaret's service. This countryside had been heavily cultivated from the earliest of times, parcelled off into fields, farms, orchards and private estates with their own woods and gardens. Scouts came and went, and a few times they encountered parties of torch-bearing wardens and rangers whose belligerence quickly cooled on recognition of Yasgur's standard.

  Besh-Darok was an uneven glow less than an hour away, partly hidden by a wooded ridge. As the city drew ever nearer, Gillys mind turned to thoughts of escape. It could only be the Knights and the Hunters Children who were now in command of Besh-Darok and Gilly was determined to join them, even if Yasgur's army would soon assault the walls.

  Escape, though, seemed a slim prospect while six Mogaun riders were watching over him with a diligence born of malicious glee, almost as if they were hoping for an excuse to pounce. He had already suspected two of being his keepers, but it was Atroc who pointed out the other four, soon after his arrival.

  "The one with the spear is in case you dodge the two nearby riders," the old Mogaun had said, matter-of-factly. "The one with the bow is there if the spear misses, and those two, the ones without armour, will chase you down were you charmed enough to evade the rest." Atroc had grinned, not unkindly, and patted Gilly on the shoulder. "See how we value your companionship, southman?"

  They were deep in the darkest hours of the night by the time the road came to the ridge. The slope before them was steep and overgrown, a thick tangle of trees, thorns and shadows, but the road curved to the right, staying on level ground. Gilly eyed the dark wall of foliage, trying to discern details - weren't there a couple of old smugglers' trails that led over the ridge? If he could spot one amid the shadows, and if he could get to it without taking an arrow or a spear in the back, then he could lose any pursuit in that dense undergrowth. He was already on the ridgeward side of the column, with Ghazrek more than an arm's length away on his right. The trick would be to get Ghazrek between him and those watchful warriors, or perhaps fake a fall, somehow provoke his horse into throwing him...

  Then there was a shout from up ahead and Yasgur slowed the vanguard with a raised hand as one of the scouts came riding out of the murk. One of Yasgur's retainers fumbled with a hooded lamp as the prince and Atroc conversed with the scout in whispers. By the lamp's tapered yellow glow Gilly saw the scout hand a wadded cloth to Yasgur who partly unfolded it, examined for a moment before thrusting it into his saddlebag.

  The next moment, Yasgur was leading the column in a furious gallop after the scout who was already riding off the way he had come. Gilly had to spur his horse roughly to keep up with Ghazrek, who cast him a frowning glance, and the other Mogaun who pressed closely around him. He cursed inwardly - at this speed, spying out the secret trails would be next to impossible.

  After less than a mile the vanguard slowed once more as the scout turned along a narrow track which climbed the steep face of the ridge. In front of Gilly, Yasgur and Atroc were engaged in a quiet yet animated discussion which ended when the slowing horses brought Gilly and the other front riders close. Interesting, he thought.

  The undergrowth on the slope was a dense entwining of poisonous dogivy and wallthorn, and the air beneath the trees was chilly and damp. The track, which had clearly once been wider, passed over two brooks and round a time-worn rocky outcrop before the crest of the ridge came into view. There had once been a fort here: the tumbled remains of its walls, rounded by centuries and moss, bore mute testimony to the square lines of its ancient design. Once, too, the ground all about it had been cleared, perhaps even salted, but down the years tenacious grass and bushes had taken hold across the area, right back to the impenetrable wood many yards away.

  Torches burned amid the ruins and figures moved there as the vanguard approached. Yasgur and Atroc dismounted, as did everyone else, almost two hundred riders gathering in a wide crescent to watch. Six hooded Mogaun warriors - members of Yasgur's special scout band - came forward with three prisoners and forced them to kneel. As Yasgur strode forward to meet them, Gilly examined the captives, all youths not yet in their maturity, and his gaze came to rest on one that he thought familiar, a fair-haired young man whose face was full of dignity and despair.

  Recognition came in a sudden leap, bringing in its wake a dismay that he felt in his stomach. The boy was Tauric, the heir to the Imperial throne. But what was he doing outside Besh-Darok if Mazaret and the others were in control of it? And why had they been so cruel as to tie his amputated arm behind his back?

  Yasgur was clutching the cloth brought by the scout, unfolded and trailing on the ground as he walked straight towards Tauric. The cloth was a white flag bearing the device of the Fathertree, symbol of a dead Emperor and a shattered empire. When Yasgur came to halt before Tauric, he gestured with his empty hand for the youth to stand. As he did so, a tense stillness hung over the ruins and a chill went through Gilly at the sight of this meeting.

  "I've heard of your arm," said Yasgur. "I would see it."

  At his nod, one of the hooded scouts cut Tauric's bonds and held up his right arm. A brown sleeve and gauntlet were stripped away to reveal gleaming metal from elbow to fingertips. Excited murmurs and whispered charms against evil passed among the watching warriors, and Gilly stared in amazement.

  "A fine piece," Yasgur said. "Is it sorcerous?"

  "I..." Tauric faltered. "I do not know."

  Watching Yasgur, Gilly was sure he saw a hint of uncertainty behind the stern, bearded features and wondered if he knew who Tauric was.

  "You risk much with that arm," Yasgur said, and held out the flag. "And this."

  "Sometimes risk is in the blood," Tauric said calmly.

  "Is that why your troops have seized my city?"

  "It is no crime to regain that which was stolen!"

  Yasgur smiled slowly, as if satisfied, and to Gilly's eyes a look of mutual acknowledgement seemed to pass between them.

  "Now I must decide what to do with you," Yasgur said. "I could send you to the Council of Chiefs, who would not treat you kindly. Or I could send you to the Acolytes in their fastness, and they would be harsher still. Or I could just torture you myself."

  From the gathered warriors came laughter and jeers, and faces lit up with glee. Gilly felt a tremor of dread.

  "But would that smooth the return of my city?" Yasgur went on. "Would that safeguard my subjects, who have already suffered much from this insurrection? No - Besh-Darok is mine - " A hand came up clenched in a fist then stretched out to point at Tauric, " - just as you are mine."

  Yasgur gazed fiercely about him, looking many of the Doubleknives and Bloodfists in the eye, an open challenge to his audience.

  "I have decided what will be done," he said. "These three shall be sent to the city with a simple message for their fellows - Leave Besh-Darok within the hour and you shall not be hindered. If that span expires and you yet remain, then my army shall fall upon the city and every one of you will be slain without mercy."

  A shocked silence greeted these words, and Gilly saw many of the assembled warriors glare at their commander with unconcealed hate. Yasgur, however, turned to Tauric.

  "My words must reach your captains without alteration - swear that you will repeat them as I have said them."

  But before Tauric could answer there was a commotion among the onlookers and a gaunt figure carrying a plain staff stepped forward. It was one of the two shamen sent with the vanguard by Byrnak, a Bloodfist by the name of Jaroul. His bony form cast a long shadow as he pointed at Yasgur with the forked head of his staff.

  "You dishonour the memory of your father," Jaroul said. "The mighty Hegroun would not have made such spineless agreements with the enemy - "

  "Who are you to say what my father would or would not have done?" Yasgur cried, stung to fury. He mov
ed towards his accuser. "You forget who is your master here!"

  The shaman raised his staff, and scores of warriors rushed forward in groups. Amid the noisy scramble, Gilly was grabbed by a cluster of hands and thrust to the ground while Yasgur, roaring his anger and swinging his fists, was overwhelmed by a mob of Doubleknives. Elsewhere, Yasgur's few personal guards were ruthlessly butchered, and Ghazrek went down beneath a flurry of blows.

  Untouched by the tumult, but closely guarded, Tauric and his companions could only stare in helpless amazement.

  At last, out of the confusion a kind of order emerged. Gilly found himself kneeling next to a dishevelled but alert Atroc and a bruised and bloody-lipped Ghazrek. Yasgur was also kneeling a few feet away, bound and gagged, while all the warriors gathered closely around in a rough semicircle. Gilly could feel the heat of their bodies and smell the pungent taint of days-old sweat. But most of all, there was the sense of expectation.

  Some warriors behind Yasgur stood aside and the shaman Jaroul came forward, smiling. After him, supported by two brawny Mogaun, was the other shaman, a smaller man wearing little more than stained rags held together with animal gut. The man was deranged - his pale eyes wandered and rolled in their sockets, perspiration gleamed on ashen skin and a dry blood trail marked his chin from where he had bitten through his lower lip. His hand twitched at his sides and only his keepers kept him on his feet.

  Jaroul watched him with obvious pleasure then reached out to Yasgur and, none-too-gently, wrenched the gag from his mouth.

  "Your fate was in your hands, o prince," he said mockingly. "You could have commanded that the enemy be broken and crushed, but you chose otherwise. Thus it is now your fate to be shackled and caged."

  Yasgur tried to spit in his face, but only white droplets came. The shaman uttered a cracked laugh then turned to his mindless companion. With both hands he grasped the man's head, spidery fingers spread across ears and temples, thumbs holding open the upper eyelids as he stared into those restless orbs.

  "All is ready, master," Gilly heard him whisper. "The furrow awaits its seed."

  He withdrew his hands, stepped back and gestured to the two warriors who tightened their grip. For a moment, nothing. Then a trembling began in the little man's arms, as if he were cold, a quivering which travelled up to the shoulders and the head. The shaking grew till the man's entire body was juddering and his head was nodding and jerking upon his neck. Beneath his rags, his chest was fluttering as his breath wheezed and inarticulate grunts came from his twisted mouth. In the lurid glow of nearby torches held aloft, it was a ghastly sight.

  Just when it seemed to Gilly that the man was on the point of death, his convulsions changed to a retching which soon became deeper and drawn out. No-one spoke in the fearful stillness, as finally there was one expulsive exhalation which went on and on for long seconds, the widened mouth exposing a pale dry tongue. Animal terror shone in the eyes and for an instant they glanced over at Gilly.

  Someone in the crowd gasped, followed by others, then Gilly saw it, a greenish radiance emerging from the agonised shaman's mouth. Then the bright core of it appeared, a burning emerald mote which slowly slid over the bottom lip and off into the air. It drifted there for a moment, the focus of all attention, then in a blurred streak of motion flew straight at Yasgur.

  Instinctively, Yasgur turned his face away and Gilly was not the only onlooker to cry out when the bright green speck struck the prince's cheek and buried into it. With blood pouring from the wound, Yasgur lurched sideways, still bound hand and foot but thrashing and bellowing in pain and fear. Pandemonium erupted. Warriors scrambled back from him while others pushed forward to see, and over the noise came the voice of the shaman Jaroul shouting futile orders.

  At length, the crowd went oddly silent and drew back, and Gilly saw Yasgur getting to his feet, his stance poised and relaxed, his hands holding severed pieces of cord. But now a pale green nimbus clung to him, a pearly veil which shifted and glittered faintly, casting a sickly tinge across a face whose eyes were full of evil power and whose lips smiled a smile of hungry anticipation.

  "Mighty Hegroun!" cried the shaman, throwing himself at the prince's feet. "We are your servants - command us!"

  Hegroun? Gilly thought in stunned dread. What foul sorcery is this?

  The man named Hegroun ignored the outburst, instead sidestepping the prostrate shaman and with a predatory litheness moved towards where Tauric still stood, hands bound again behind his back. The young heir scarcely flinched when the possessed chief leaned in close to study him, letting the green aura brush against hair and face.

  "I can smell him in you," Hegroun said. "You share his blood, and his fate." He turned to survey the crowd, his piercing gaze coming to rest upon Atroc. "Well, old man, still alive, eh? Still meddling?"

  Atroc inclined his head. "Each to his own nature, lord."

  Hegroun snorted. "You have changed not at all. Even when you say little, it is still too much." He looked at the shaman. "Tie the boy to a tree and have the men gather kindling, then get me a spear. Let us see if he burns as well as his father."

  There were whoops of delight and eager hate at this, and the clustered crowd of Mogaun riders dispersed in groups to gather foliage. As Tauric was dragged struggling over to a slender tree, Gilly cursed aloud and received a casual cuff from his guard. Beside him, Atroc just watched with a kind of cold intensity.

  Then Gilly saw one of Tauric's captors topple to the ground, a feathered shaft through his neck. There was the whirr of more arrows and several agonised cries as some torchbearers fell, dousing or dimming their flames. Hegroun and the shaman were shouting orders amid the gloom, then behind him Gilly heard the thud of arrows into flesh and turned to see his guards lying in their death throes. Instantly he leaped up and was about to dash across to Tauric when dozens of flaming missiles began falling out of the night sky. Panicking warriors ran from the ruins, only to encounter their own horses, released and driven to stampede. Many were trampled before the horses swerved towards the ridge's nothern slope.

  As he ran and dodged the burning missiles - clods of grassy earth soaked in oil - Gilly spotted the Hegroun creature carrying a spear and loping towards Tauric. A couple of men bearing swords stood near the boy, working on his bonds. Then he was free, and to Gilly's utter astonishment he leaped from the tree and charged straight at the possessed chieftain. Skillfully, he beat aside a spearthrust and with his clenched metal hand struck Hegroun in the face, casting him to the ground.

  Hegroun lost his spear but was still agile enough to use his legs to knock Tauric's feet from under him. As the boy sprawled in the dust, Hegroun rose to stand over him, laughing.

  Gilly was racing full-tilt towards the chieftain. I'll have you, he thought grimly. Just a few more paces...

  Two things happened almost at once. A great dark shape rushed in from the side, a rider on a horse Gilly realised. He saw it slam into the Hegroun creature in the instant before a heavy weight landed on Gilly's back and bore him to the ground.

  "I told you we value your companionship," a familiar voice gasped in his ear while he struggled with his face in the dirt. Out the corner of his eye he thought he saw the rider haul Tauric up behind him. But then a blow came down on his head and he knew no more.

  * * *

  On boggy ground by a river, Byrnak stood next to an empty smoking pit while Ystregul stared out at the night. They had all watched the drama unfold atop the ridge near Besh-Darok and now that the other three Shadowkings were no longer ethereally present, Byrnak wondered at Ystregul's composure in the face of what had transpired.

  "The boy is lucky in his allies," he said. "To escape from such a trap..."

  "You would know about that," Ystregul said cuttingly.

  Byrnak ground his teeth at the remark and held in his anger, channelled it, made it work for him. "Such a shame that your servant was foolish enough to let him slip away. Hopefully the rest of them will not be as...lacking."

  Th
e Black Priest turned with a gaze full of enmity. "In life Hegroun was an ordinary man - the others were anything but. Besides, where else can the boy go but back to the city, which will be in our hands anyway before the night is done."

  "So your Acolytes promise you," Byrnak said. "But can you be sure?"

  "I am certain of every detail, every link in the chain. It will not fail." He raised a bare hand to point at Byrnak. "Be wary of testing my patience in this way. I will not be mocked."

  Ystregul turned and stalked back to his horse, accompanied by his small coterie of Acolytes and Initiates, two of whom half-carried a weak, delirious shaman. Byrnak enjoyed a contemptuous smile. He had watched them all work with Ystregul, digging the conical hole, tracing patterns all around it, then standing there, drenched in the harsh emerald glow shining up from the pit, wreathed in vapours expelled by the heat of sorcery. Then with metal rods they had coaxed forth the revenant spirits, rising like a tiny flock of burning viridian pearls which they guided over to the open mouth of the drugged shaman and smoothly down his gullet.

  All this Byrnak had observed, with some unknown instinct, some hidden aptitude noting every step and method and fitting them all together in his mind, making him understand. This shaman was linked to one of the two accompanying Yasgur, one the entrance, the other the exit. He recalled a comment Obax had once made, that the Acolytes were artisans of the soul, able to treat a man's spirit like a gemstone, cutting, reshaping, polishing it, even gathering it back together from the grinding scatter of the grave.

  Now as he walked carefully across muddy ground back to his own horse, the Hidden One's insistence that Ystregul needed watching over took on a certain urgency. Byrnak already knew which clan chiefs belonged to the Black Priest and which ones might sway to his cause, but of his dealings with the Acolytes he knew next to nothing. Was he in alliance with the entire order, or with just a few of them?