Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  Tauric’s other companions were boarding the barge, among them members of his White Company, the personal guard founded by several idealistic young men after the Battle of Oumetra. Each was garbed in a white tabard bearing the tree-and-crown, and as she looked closer she could see that each also wore a steel gauntlet on his shield arm. This, together with the appearance of the woman Mila, sent a quiver of unease through her. The Margrave’s daughter watched her with nervous eyes and was about to say something when Tauric made a hushing gesture and, smiling, cupped his real hand at his ear.

  Still the distant drums pounded from Five Kings Dock, a low insistent undertone to the hubbub of the passing crowd, except that now Alael could hear a faint chime of bells coming from upriver and growing louder. Then the bell on the pier sounded and as she looked up at the tower she saw someone flinging handfuls of petals into the air, a fragrant, many-coloured shower. A joyous cheer went up from the barge in response.

  “That is the signal for me to depart, Alael,” said Tauric. “Will you be attending the final ceremony?”

  “Indeed I shall, your Highness.”

  “Good, then perhaps….” He faltered for a moment then gave a sad smile. “Till later.”

  With Mila on his arm, he descended from the carriage and strode across the gangway to his barge. Alael watched him go, thinking - Just a boy, he’s just a boy, but her conviction seemed confused by regret and doubt.

  As the couple stepped down onto the deck, the Margrave’s daughter glanced back at Alael with a look of unconcealed triumph. Alael was suddenly aware of her prominence alone on the carriage and went over to the little stairway. By the time she was back with her guards, Tauric was but a dim form seated within the iron cage, being borne slowly away across the water.

  * * *

  After nearly colliding with a street-seller’s cart for the third time, Gilly decided that the streets were just too busy for an urgent horse ride. He dismounted in front of a coaching inn called the Shaft-and-Shield and thrust the reins into the hands of a surprised stable lad, saying:

  “See she gets fed and watered, and a good rub down too, mind! My name’s Cordale - “ He flipped a silver halfpiece to the boy, “ - and there’ll be another of those for your master after the coronation.”

  Then he dashed off through the crowd in the direction he last saw Yarram and his men take, themselves likewise on foot.

  It had been only a short while since spotting Yarram’s galloping approach after that unsettling meeting with Atroc. Despite hurrying down from the battlements, Gilly was too late to catch Yarram’s party who, after a brief exchange with the chief ostler concerning the whereabouts of Yasgur, had then taken fresh horses and ridden off towards the docks. Gilly had then faced an argument with the chief ostler before a saddled horse was brought forth and he could begin his pursuit.

  Now, as he ducked and swerved through the crowds, craning his neck to stare along snow-whitened side streets and wynds, his frustration grew by the minute. Whatever the nature of Yarram’s news, it was sufficiently grave for him to go directly to Yasgur at Five Kings Dock, an act which set Gilly’s instincts quivering with dread.

  Then he turned a corner to find the way completely blocked by a tight press of townsfolk cheering and clapping along to a troupe of bellwhistlers and jugglers. It was a narrow street with high-walled houses either side and an archway supporting an overhead bridge, full of people standing belly to back.

  “Come on, Cordale,” he muttered to himself. “Think!”

  Then he snapped his fingers and looked up at the bridge.

  This district of Besh-Darok, known as Highcliffe, had been built on and around rocky spurs of the hill which dominated the southeast of the city. Over the centuries houses, businesses and temples had been hewn from the rock faces while more exclusive residences occupied the higher ground. Bridges spanned the fissures and crevices and passages and stairways had been carved throughout the spurs. Gilly recalled a road which ran the length of Highcliffe District, passing over several bridges before reaching the small park which lay in front of Five Kings Dock. It was sure to be a quieter route than this, and who could tell? - he might even reach the docks before Yarram.

  Nearby was a long, winding set of steps called the Envadine Stairs. As Gilly ascended them two and a time he picked up a tail of small boys, chanting and laughing as they pattered along after him. When he paused some way up to catch his breath, they hung back a little, calling out beggar jests.

  “You must be fair warm b’now, milor’. Sure y’need that cloak?”

  “An' that jerkin - must be right hot for ye - ”

  “ - them shoes’ll be pinchin’ ‘im, ‘an ‘all -”

  “What about some cups and berries, milor’, cups and berries?…”

  He grinned. The copper half-wen was the lowest value coin of the realm and had an overflowing goblet stamped on its obverse: the wen bore the image of a cluster of berries. But he knew for a fact that all his pouch held was a regal and a few silvers. He faced his followers and tried to look menacing.

  “Do your mothers know you’re still out...talking to dangerous strangers?!”

  “Ah, she does, milor', she does.”

  “Mine says I’m dangerous enough on me own - ”

  “ - only when ye need a bath, ye mucker…”

  Gilly shook his head. I’d be as well trying to scare off a wolf with a carrot.

  While his juvenile retinue were arguing over who smelled the worst, he decided to resume his climb and dashed up the stairs three at a time. With high-pitched cries rising behind him, he ducked along the first turning he came to, a cobbled street which curved up a steep incline, then slipped down a narrow, dim alley which brought him to an unexpectedly wide and ornate set of stone steps. Whistling a jaunty tune, he sauntered up them and emerged some minutes later on Allutra Parade, the tree-lined thoroughfare which ran the length of Highcliffe.

  To his right were a number of large houses in their grounds, their boundaries set by fence or wall, their well-kept gardens laid to winter sleep beneath unbroken mantles of snow. He curled his lip in contempt as he hastened past - there was no evidence here of the deprivations suffered by ordinary folk since the invasion, no signs of impoverishment or self denial. To his left, beyond the gazebos and arbours, the view looked across the artisan district and the abandoned shipyards to the wide, flat expanse of the Olodar River. The river chimes had sounded while he was ahorse so Tauric was probably at the Earthmother temple at Wybank by now, receiving the Flower Crown.

  Better you than me, laddie, he thought.

  By the time Gilly crossed the third bridge near the end of Allutra Parade, the buildings had become higher and closer and consisted more of ordinary dwelling houses and businesses. Some side roads led further uphill, through the leafy affluence of Highcliffe, while others led off to join the rickety walkways which ran above some of the lower wynds. This part of the artisan district was devoted to textiles and in the icy cold steam from the dye-houses veiled the air with great white plumes and clouds. Outline and details were blurred or completely hidden and to Gilly’s eyes the wynds seemed mysterious and deserted. Then out of the fumey haze, on a catwalk running parallel to Allutra Parade, a slender female figure appeared, hurrying along in the direction of the docks. Frowning, Gilly slowed to an amble while staring intently across.

  “Nerek?”

  That purposeful stride was the same, as was the cropped hair...then the woman was gone, engulfed by a billow of steam. Gilly shrugged and was about to pick up the pace again when another figure came into view, a man holding a sword and clearly stalking the woman who had passed before. Suddenly, Gilly was sure that she had been Nerek.

  He turned and ran pell-mell back along the avenue a short way to a side-alley which led down to the lower district. His rapid footsteps splashed in melted snow and mud then thudded on wood as he charged across a quivering gantry to the catwalk Nerek had been on just moments before. Skidding on icy planks, he slewed round
the corner and rushed through damp clouds of steam.

  Small decorated banners bearing the names of shops and their craftsmen hung limply on lines strung across the narrow street. Droplets of condensed moisture beaded the wooden handrails of the gantries, and water dripped quietly to the street below. Boards creaked underfoot as Gilly trotted along, sword in hand, senses alert. The overcast daylight was smothered in the chill haze between these buildings and the middle distance was utterly shrouded. Then a sharp gleam penetrated the pale gloom, a hard white radiance coming from the walkway on the other side of the street. There was a choked cry, a woman’s voice, and he was running again towards the crossing gantry.

  But there were others running the same way directly opposite, small forms heading straight for what Gilly could now see were two figure struggling in a doorway. Coming up fast he could also see that the newcomers were children, mostly young boys it seemed, and a suspicion formed in his mind. But it was forgotten as they closed on the man who had his hand around Nerek’s throat … while bright, wavering tendrils of power joined his eyes to hers.

  There was the flicking sound of a loosed sling and Nerek’s attacker let out a cry of anger, turned to confront the boys and was enveloped by a small net. But he ignore it and struck the nearest boy a wild, backhand blow that sent him flying backwards into the handrail, which gave way. The boy screamed as he fell through, arms flailing, but managed to catch hold of the gantry edge. Gilly swore, passed his sword to his other hand, tugged a short throwing dagger from its waist sheath and hurled it. He had aimed at the throat but the man turned suddenly to drag an insensible Nerek to her feet, and the dagger punched into his shoulder.

  The man grunted, let go of Nerek and threw himself sideways. Rolling to a crouch, he glanced back at Gilly who was rushing up with sword at the ready. A pitiless, cold look then the man leaped up and darted out of sight along a steam-fogged alley. Gilly’s instinct was to go after him, but a thin cry for help brought him back to the broken railing. He sheathed his blade then reached down and pulled the young boy up to safety. The next thing he knew, the boy had scrambled to his feet and was dashing off into the pale haze. Of the other boys there was no sign.

  “Hey!” Gilly cried. “How about some gratitude, you little wretch?”

  For a moment there was silence, then a boy’s voice called out:

  “Blind Rina thanks you…”

  “Now who….” Gilly began, then a racking cough came from nearby. “Nerek!”

  She was sprawled in the doorway of a candle makers, trying to get to her feet. He bent to help her.

  “In the Mother’s name, woman, rest a while - ”

  “No...no…” Still coughing and using Gilly for support, she struggled upright and propped herself against the door frame. “I have to get to the coronation - you must help me…”

  Seeing the state she was in, Gilly felt caught between concern and exasperation. Nerek looked so similar to Keren yet was so different, possessed of an unrelenting quality which occasionally made her seem grim and monstrous. Yet there had been instances when she would do or say something which momentarily revealed a lonely and poignant yearning to understand the world around her. Then there were other times when there was no give in her at all.

  “You’re in no condition - “ he began.

  “Listen - they tried to kill me because they don’t want me showing up at the coronation,” she said hoarsely, one hand tightly gripping his arm. “I don’t know why, but we have to warn Bardow and the others - if you….won’t help, I’ll crawl to the docks if I have to…”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender, knowing that she meant every word. “I bow to your arguments, milady, a shrewd combination of bluntness and coercion.” He took one of her arms across his shoulder while supporting her with an arm about her waist. “I swear, they should send you to Dalbar instead of me.”

  “Did someone say the name 'Blind Rina' a few moments ago?” she asked as he helped her along the catwalk.

  “Some beggar boys were following me…” he said, and related what had happened, including the strange parting thanks. To his surprise, Nerek gave a dry laugh.

  “She was right,” she said. “I will have to ask Bardow about learning to use the Lesser Power.”

  Chapter Three

  In the mirror of souls

  Strange things take root

  —The Book Of Earth And Stone

  Kulberisti Longmarket, also known as the City of Stalls, was a canopied street which led from the end of Respil Road to the east side of Five Kings Dock. Archmage Bardow had spent most of the morning in three important meetings, the last of which had involved arguing over tariffs and embargoes with Besh-Darok’s richest merchants in Trade Guild offices near the Gauntlet Gate. When the time came to leave for the Low Coronation, Respil Road was the obvious route to take.

  But it seemed that everyone else in this quarter had arrived at the same conclusion - Kulberisti Longmarket was one continuous, chattering mass of people shuffling north towards the narrow alleyway bottleneck which was the main way to the docks. On either side of the noisy throng food and drink stalls were doing a roaring trade but that was no comfort to Bardow and his companions who were stuck at the centre of the river of bodies and had scarcely moved in nearly ten minutes.

  Serjeant Jamek, the commander of Bardow’s small six-man escort, had been surveying the crowds ahead and turned to speak.

  “They are making almost no progress, ser Bardow. It also appears that a brawl has now broken out at the far end of the market and the city guards are having trouble reaching it. Perhaps for the safety of yourself and the lady Ffion we should consider making a detour.”

  “Through one of those houses?” said Ffion. “But there are people living there.”

  Bardow’s red-haired assistant had journeyed from Krusivel soon after the Battle of Besh-Darok, and in resuming her role had shown a welcome aptitude for paperwork. Bardow also found her kindness and warmth a much-needed balance to his daily struggle with city politics.

  “All we need is a way through to the back alley, Ffion,” Bardow said reassuringly. “But we shall only ask, not demand. Serjeant - you and your men clear a way through to those buildings there. Be firm, but try not to break any heads.”

  “As you say, ser.”

  Jamek was tall and broad shouldered, and had been a Second Rul in the city militia before he was recruited to the Knights Protectorate, one of the four new orders founded by Mazaret. He and his men wore polished leather harness decorated with silver inlay, black iron collarettes, and long, dark blue cloaks. They forged a swift and efficient path through the crowd to the mean, two-storey buildings behind the stalls. The surly, bearded landlord of one dim house soon turned eager and cooperative when Bardow produced a couple of silvers from his moneybelt.

  A few moments later they were stepping out into a cold alley where thick snow had gone to grey-brown slush.

  “Is there another way to Five Kings Dock from here?” Ffion asked him.

  “Indeed there is,” Bardow said.

  “Do you have a map?” she asked.

  “Indeed I do,” Bardow said, tapping his forehead. “In here. I grew up in this city, remember. Now, if we head along this way we should find a side street to take us down to the coast road…”

  He urged them all on at a brisk pace, sensing that another snowfall was imminent. Although Jamek and his men were well-wrapped against the weather, Bardow and Ffion had on thin robes over fine indoor garb. Shivering, he wished they had brought a carriage from the palace.

  As they walked, Bardow’s thoughts went back to the morning’s meetings. The first had been with coronation officials at the palace, a summary of final, unresolved details which were promptly dealt with. The next had taken place in a small room in the Keep of Day: there he spoke to a small gathering of mages, most of whom had been reluctant to attend, and after some intense discussion persuaded them to agree to a further meeting in the next day or two.

&n
bsp; For the third meeting, Bardow had left the palace and crossed the city to Gauntlet Square where senior merchants were gathering at the offices of the Trades Guild. There, the arguments had been labyrinthine, a convoluted tangle of specious precedent, dubious legalities and sheer arrogance which all came down to one basic premise - that the merchants of Besh-Darok be allowed to trade whatever goods they liked with whomever they liked, with no tariffs while paying minimal taxes to the Crown. Bardow had listened to all this with a mounting sense of incredulity and the realisation that even after the fall of the Empire and sixteen years of occupation, these greedy men still did not understand the nature of the evil that threatened them all. The world teetered on the brink of an abyss and they thought only of lining their own pockets.

  Yet the new government of Besh-Darok needed them, their experience and their webs of contacts. With the prospect of further savage conflict looming in the spring, there was a great need for huge amounts of iron and wood for the weapon forgers, horses for the cavalry, stone for fortifications, textiles for military tailors and sail makers - the list was near endless and the treasury’s funds were finite. So, without making any important concessions, Bardow had to appear sympathetic to the Guildsmen while persuading them to sign a few vital contracts. Bardow had brought with him a personal message from Yasgur (who had dealt with them in previous years), a scroll which he had passed to Serjeant Jamek before entering the conclave hall. Later, while preparing to leave with the signed documents, Bardow had mused on the persuasive effects of a seal- and ribbon-adorned letter full of manly exhortations read aloud by a steely-eyed, six foot four, strikingly attired Knight Serjeant.

  Now, as they hurried along the coast road, buffeted by cold gusts coming in from the bay, a bleak mood stole over the Archmage. Only he and a few others - Medwin, Alael and Terzis and some of the mages - truly understood the threat of the Shadowkings. The Crystal Eye certainly made use of the Lesser Power easier, and stronger in some cases, while serving as a sentinel against Wellsource adepts in and around the city (Nerek it seemed to recognise as an ally). But those who worked with it the most found themselves gaining unsettling insights into the darkness surrounding them. With his perceptions of the sorcerous landscape waxing, he became increasingly aware of the Shadowkings themselves and the sheer scale of the powers at their command. Every so often he had felt the dread weight of their gaze across the hundreds of miles like a black, insidious pressure upon his consciousness. For these brief periods, he had a focus for his purpose, a foe to struggle against, a beguilement to deny. At other times, he threw himself into work on the city’s innumerable problems, hoping to evade contemplation’s burden of despair.