Keren waited for him to turn and lead the way, but he made no move.
"Do you want us to rest?"
The Daemonkind gazed at her with unfathomable azure eyes. "No. Before we continue I must fulfill my promise and return your flesh and bone to what they were."
She drew back in alarm. "But you know that I want to become one of you and return with you!"
"Only because I have made you my servant for a time." A wintry smile came to his lips as he raised a hand. "We are the ones who serve - we do not create servants."
"But wait..."
Change swept through her, a tidal wave of brute sensation rushing up from her extremities. She cried out, reeled against the stone wall, felt sharp points, felt her skin catch on the rasping surface. Trembling, she made herself stand as the wave crashed on through her, flooding every corner of her being. Awareness of herself as a collaboration of elements brought unwelcome news in its wake - she had a nagging headache, her stomach felt unsettled, and she had pulled a muscle in her shoulder.
"The power I gave you is still there," Orgraaleshenoth said. "Can you feel it?"
She could. It was like a low, single note thrumming in her, becoming clearer as the wild edge of physical sensation began to subside. Keren tried to recall how she had been before, remembered a sense of invulnerability, an outer numbness, a cluster of iron voices within. Great power and great solitude.
"Your body is as it was, but your spiritual essence is changed forever," the Daemonkind said. "Even if you decide to remain here, you will always have an affinity for the Realm of Ruin."
"I still wish to return there with you."
"Then come."
He turned and walked on, and Keren followed.
* * *
The Mogaun host swept through the night towards Besh-Darok, leaving a wide swathe of smoking ruin in its wake. Fences and huts were destroyed, fields and gardens churned into mud, dwellings put to the torch, stores ransacked and any resistance savagely put down.
Byrnak looked over his shoulder at the great dark mass of riders, their banners streaming, their standards swaying as they rode. Several bore his own sun-and-black-sword sigil, and he smiled. The Host had grown since departing Arengia and now numbered a little over fourteen thousand mounted warriors. The sheer brute force of it stirred a feral delight in him, but that was tempered by his awareness of Ystregul.
Thoughts of the other Shadowking made his delight fade into a smouldering hate. For all that Byrnak had been named the Host's general, in reality the army was divided. Byrnak led the right wing, and Ystregul led the left, each made up of their own followers, while a few maverick tribes kept to the centre and rear. With large clans like the Redclaws and Blackmoons, Byrnak had the numerical advantage but Ystregul had the support of many shamen who were being hurriedly schooled in the secrets of the Wellsource by his coterie of Acolytes.
He glanced at Obax, who rode next to him, and saw those pale ivory eyes staring back.
Your consternation is clear, my lord. Is it the Black Priest's stratagems which trouble you?
The Acolyte's mindspeech was a quiet whisper in his thoughts, yet seemed louder than the galloping thunder of the Host.
This is so, he replied. But my thoughts keep returning to those of your brothers who are aiding him so eagerly.
Obax looked uncomfortable. Great Lord, each of the Shadowkings possesses a fragment of our god, and we have faith in the strength of the Lord of Twilight's will, that through mysterious paths and workings shall all of his divine facets be united. It is our task, and our burden, to serve to the full.
And have you served me by talking to the other Acolytes and discovering Ystregul's plans?
I did speak with them, my lord, but I learned nothing conclusive.
Nothing conclusive... Byrnak let his contempt show. Is it not possible that Ystregul has swayed your brothers to his cause, and that their faith is now in him?
Obax was about to reply when shouts caught Byrnak's attention. He reined in his horse and looked northward to where many warriors were pointing.
The entire left wing of the Host was veering away towards a high ridge nearly a mile from Besh-Darok, the same ridge where Yasgur was seized by his father's spirit. There had been no previous agreement on this, no messages given, no signals, no signs. Rage filled Byrnak and his hands longed to grasp Ystregul's throat. But he kept his fury in check and beckoned one of his officers.
"We are to follow," he said, as if it was already determined. "Pass the order to the other chieftains." Then he turned to Obax. "Come with me!"
Without pause, he spurred his horse into a gallop, riding past the clusters of tribes and bands. Spears and flags were brandished and hoots and cries went up when he passed by. As he and Obax drew near the head of the great column, a group of riders broke away from it and rode back to meet them. Both parties slowed to face one another a short distance from the constant din of thousands of horsemen.
There were five of them, four Acolytes and one Flegros, chieftain of the Rockwolf clan. Flegros had long, unbraided hair, tallow-blackened eyes, and wore a long red coat over leather and mail. He made an obeisance from his saddle, but the black-robed Acolytes just sat and stared at Byrnak, a couple of them smiling openly.
"On behalf of our master, I present profound apologies to the great lord Byrnak," Flegros said, insincerity in every word. "But it was judged imperative that we pause by yonder ridge so that all the Shadowkings may gather in preparation for the coming battle."
"No mention of this was made previously," Byrnak said, his temper rising.
Flegros shrugged. "It was thought that you would immediately understand the situation and give appropriate orders, great lord. As is the case, I see."
Yes, he thought. Understand who considers himself the master. In his mind's eye he pictured Flegros reduced to a pile of charred, smoking bones and had to fight the urge to strike the man down on the spot.
"Remind the Black Priest that the attack on the city must start soon," Byrnak said through gritted teeth. "Before Hegroun kills everyone in it."
"That now appears unlikely," Flegros said. "Yasgur's seer managed to cast out the shade of Hegroun and free the prince."
Byrnak smiled unpleasantly. "Another triumph for your lord and master."
'A minor setback. We shall..."
Just then, one of the Acolytes raised a hand and Flegros fell silent as the man addressed Obax.
"My master wished to know your reponse to his offer. Will you accept?"
Strike down this disrespectful vermin!
Half-agreeing with the outraged godhead, Byrnak gritted his teeth and decided to watch and listen.
"My reply remains as it was when the offer was made," Obax said levelly. "And will remain so in the future. I cannot accept."
"So you say. The offer, however, remains open."
With that, the four Acolytes wheeled their horses and rode back towards the head of the Host, closely tailed by Flegros. Byrnak watched them go then gave Obax a dark, penetrating look.
"I take it that they asked you to join them," he said. "You should have told me about that."
"I did not think it of importance," Obax said. "But I will accept whatever punishment you decide upon."
Ah, punishment. You will all taste it to the dregs.
"I shall forego punishment, this once," Byrnak said with iron resolution. "Just remember that where Ystregul is concerned, everything is important. Now, let us return to our warriors and persuade them that this is all part of the great plan!"
* * *
The meeting took place in a furniture warehouse by the river, in a long, low-ceilinged storeroom lit by glass-sided lanterns and smelling of sawdust. When Mazaret had arrived, Yasgur was already there, accompanied by two bare-armed guards and the elderly seer Atroc whom Gilly had mentioned. Mazaret had Gilly with him, and a couple of staff officers, and a head full of frayed nerves. When Gilly had appeared with an amazing story and Yasgur's offer of a truce, Kod
el was nowhere to be found so Mazaret had no choice but to carry out the task himself.
Now he was sitting at a scored, notched carpenter's trestle across from Yasgur who was giving a brief account of his possession by the spirit of Hegroun and how Gilly and Atroc had brought him back. Despite its lurid, macabre nature, it tallied with what Gilly had said earlier and had several details in common with what had happened atop the Keep of Day.
"It was always my intention to send the boy Tauric back to you, not torture and kill him," Yasgur said. "Is he well?"
"He was in the High Spire when the stone monsters fell upon the city," Mazaret said, feeling weary. "The inner palace is cut off - the doors barred, the stairs wrecked, corridors collapsed, so we do not know what is happening."
Atroc nodded. "They want our deaths, even for us to be their slaves in death."
Yasgur shuddered visibly, fingering his oiled black beard, eyes full of a simmering anger. "I will tell you this - when the Host of Clans arrives, I will not submit to their commands, or surrender my walls."
"You mean to fight your own people?" Mazaret said.
"I must, for they are in thrall to evil creatures claiming to be messengers from our god." Yasgur leaned forward, face full of intensity. "It is they who have blackened the honour of my family and my clan by tearing my father's spirit from his grave, making him their servant and sending him against me. When they come to Besh-Darok I shall hurl defiance in their faces and resist them with all my strength." He narrowed his eyes. "I still have another army coming from the north. It should be here by dawn."
"With respect, that may be too late," Mazaret said. "The last scout reports I received suggest that the Host will be here in less than an hour. Those stone monsters may have completed their vile purpose well before your army arrives."
"Yes," Yasgur said sombrely. "Which is why I shall attack the false messengers as soon as they draw near to the walls, ride out and catch them unawares. If we can kill one or both of them, we may halt whatever is happening in the High Spire and prevent a catastrophe." He gave Mazaret a pensive look. "Will you join me? Will you bring your men to this fight? I will not hinder you if you wish to withdraw - these sorcerers have powers beyond reckoning."
Mazaret scarcely needed to consider the proposal. "While I have friends and allies held in fear of their lives in the palace, I cannot leave. We will stay, and we will fight."
Yasgur smiled and held out his hand, which Mazaret grasped. At that moment, there was a commotion at one end of the storeroom and one of Yasgur's men entered at a rush, breathing heavily.
"My lord, news...from outwith the city. The Host has turned aside..."
"What?" cried Yasgur, leaping to his feet.
"One of the mounted scouts reports that the clans are taking up positions on this side of the old fort ridge, yet they are not setting up camp."
"Why do such a thing?"
"Because of their servants up in the palace," Atroc said, his voice heavy with dread. "Something terrible is going to hatch out..."
There was an awful, still moment, and Yasgur looked straight at Mazaret. "Then we cannot - we dare not - wait for the enemy to come to us."
Standing up, ignoring the aches in his limbs and back, Mazaret met the chieftain's dark gaze, understanding fully the enormity of what he was saying. "An attack by night?"
"Half my men are still outside the city," Yasgur said, grinning a fierce grin. "We would have some advantage of surprise."
Mazaret felt that teetering, hollow feeling of fateful risk, of stepping out over the great unknown, then nodded. "I agree," he said, and the two men shook hand once more, settling the matter.
"This is madness," Gilly said to Atroc, who was pouring pale liquor into four thimble-sized cups. "Insanity."
"In such a situation," the old Mogaun said, handing him one of the tiny cups, "what other choices are there?"
* * *
It was in a long gallery lined with mirrors and bronze statues that the third revenant found him. The gloomy light of failing lamps sent jagged shadows across the walls as it glided soundlessly towards him, arms spread wide, each hand grasping a slender-bladed dagger.
As before, Tauric obeyed the vast inner voice and faced the oncoming apparition with the cold weight of the Motherseed held to his chest. Odours of bark, leaves and moist earth, began to percolate through his senses and he could feel a strange heat building in his head, moving down his arms and hands, into the seed, while on came the revenant, its grey-as-granite countenance frozen in a grimace of pain, its cankerous green eyes seeking him out.
The heat filled his head, made it feel like a furnace. Sweat dripped from his chin, trickled down his arms. Then, when the revenant was mere yards away, the seed cracked open and spewed forth a cloudy mass of white fibres finer than hair. The pale cloud flew at Tauric's attacker, engulfed it in mid-air, long strands winding, spiralling about legs and arms.
The revenant slewed to a halt, tearing at the fibrous skeins which were spreading across its skin, burrowing into cracks and cavities. In its struggles, the creature drifted towards Tauric who stepped back, forced to watch the awful sight. The white fibres thickened, became tendril rootlets digging into the unnatural flesh. Stony fragments clicked on the polished marble floor, falling through trickles of powdery grit.
The revenant uttered a harsh, hoarse sound full of despair and swung into the wall, shattering a tall mirror. The left side of its body, from shoulder to groin, suddenly sheared away and crashed to the floor. It drifted back along the corridor, scraping against the wall as it went, smashing more mirrors, toppling statuettes from their niches, creating a cacophony of destruction.
The end came when the crippled monster collided with a protruding ledge and broke apart. Smothered in a net of white tendrils, the pieces struck the floor one after another. Tauric felt the dammed-up tensions within him relax and pour away, leaving him light-headed. On the floor near his feet, white rootlets writhed slowly about the statue of a young boy falconer, and as he watched the rootlets began to melt, dissolving into vapour...
Enough, my supplicant. Leave this place. Resume our upward progress.
The voice seemed to make his skull vibrate and he raised a hand to his head. He could not be sure whether or not the voice was the same one he heard amid the skirmish at the keep in Sejeend, but it wanted to steer him like a boat or a lamb. He had to strive against the weight of its compulsion, and concentrate on keeping control of himself.
He heard footsteps from up ahead in the corridor, and turning he saw a brown-robed, hooded figure step through a door which swung shut behind him. Clutching the Motherseed to his side, he ran along to the door, found it unlocked and entered into a dark, narrow passage. Small rooms containing dusty tables led off to either side, but Tauric kept on to the end where a door opened on a long, high room. Books and parchment rolls filled an entire wall along the room's full length, except for where several shelves and their contents lay in a heap near where Tauric stood. The library had three windows, each inset with darkly patterned stained glass, but the only light came from a candle burning on a large iron stand encrusted with drippings of wax. A hooded figure sat at a cluttered desk nearby and only turned when Tauric approached. A trembling, rag-wrapped hand came up, palm outwards.
"No please...come no closer..."
He stopped and stared, alarm fluttering in his stomach. Windings of cloth covered the man's hooded head and neck.
"For your own well-being," the man continued in a well-bred but hoarse voice. "I suffer from yellowblight, you see..."
Revulsion and pitty warred in Tauric, but curiosity kept him from fleeing.
"Why are you here?" he said. "Are you one of Yasgur's people?"
"Not I, young ser. The Acolytes keep me here to watch over the library for them, thus keeping anyone else away. I was once a scholar in this city, but my studies let me into folly." The voice rang with bitterness. "But you are a stranger to these lands - your accent is of southern Khatris, per
haps even Patrein..."
This one is dangerous - I will destroy it.
"No!" he cried, forcing himself to keep the Motherseed tucked under his arm. He stepped away from the diseased scholar. With his free hand he wiped sweat from his face and tried to ignore the heat that was flooding through his limbs. "Forgive me," he said shakily. "This thing which I carry has a will and a purpose I cannot fathom, but I need its protection and it needs me..." He gave a despairing laugh. "Or so it seems. I only know that friends of mine are being held prisoner on the topmost floor - I must find a way there and help them."
The hooded scholar nodded. "'Unseen, the Unknown is in the saddle and rides us all'," he said, as if quoting lines, then pointed at the far end of the library. "Beyond that door, choose the first archway on the left and take the spiral steps in the corner - that's one of the servant stairways. They sometimes join rooms that are several floors apart."
"My thanks," Tauric said, inclining his head in respect.
Fool.
Making no response, he shifted the Motherseed to a more comfortable position and hurried from the library.
* * *
The scholar watched the youth leave and sat unmoving for a few moments, then stood and calmly began removing his outer garments. The hooded robes were tossed aside, revealing a long coat over an embroidered tunic and kilted trews. The rags were stripped from his hands and the windings from his head. The face was old and bearded, with hollow cheeks, webs of wrinkles and a furrowed brow. And everything about him, from finger-rings to tongue and teeth, was the grey of old, cold stone, except for the eyes which shone a feverish emerald and betrayed a weary sadness.
The revenant stepped away from its castoff disguise and approached the nearest stained-glass window, carefully unfastened the latch and swung it open. He rose off the floor and a moment later was ascending the outside of the High Spire. At the jagged hole left by the Acolytes' abortive spell-making, he slowed and glided into the gloomy, pillared throne room. Light came from a few torches in wall-brackets, and from the nets of Wellsource power holding the mage prisoners in small groups. By such poor illumination he could see what a charred, cinder-strewn ruin the hall had become. Yet court was being held, after a fashion. Almost a score of revenants were arrayed on the steps to either side of the throne, whose occupant watched the newcomer with undisguised contempt.
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