Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  “It occurs to me,” Mazaret said, “that if our enemies are prepared to set such a scheme in motion, its failure will not prevent them from trying again.”

  “Precisely so, my lord,” Bardow said evenly. “Fortunately, our delegation departed for Dalbar this morning without incident, but with a stronger escort. Ah, Gilly asked me to pass on his regards.”

  “I had hoped to be here in time for their leavetaking,” Mazaret said. “But - ”

  The seer Atroc leaned forward and said, “I am told you defeated the one called Deathless.”

  Mazaret gave him a small, hard smile. “How did you come by that name, ser Atroc? I didn’t mention it in my message from the pass fort.”

  “We seers live night and day by the Door of Dreams,” Atroc said bluntly. “In sleep we hear many things both clear and uncertain.”

  “We are all eager to hear you speak of this encounter, my lord,” Yasgur said, glaring at his advisor, who merely chuckled.

  Mazaret cleared his throat and related all that had happened from the point where he met Domas at the abandoned town of Nimas. Gazes grew grim at mention of walking corpses, then shocked at the description of Azurech’s injuries and his evil pronouncements. Only Atroc seemed unsurprised and nodded on hearing of Azurech’s rescue by two nighthunters.

  “Domas and the survivors of his band elected to return to Alvergost,” Mazaret concluded. “To offer protection to any who remain there, Domas said, but he is clearly reluctant to place himself and his men under our command.” He rubbed his forehead. The dull pain was rising again. “So, how are we to counter these threats?”

  “Before we consider that, my lord, there is one more report to hear,” Bardow said. “Lord Command Yarram, if you will…”

  At the other end of the table, Yarram got to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back and began. Mazaret heard of the brigands who had been raiding from beyond the Girdle Hills, and how Yarram and his men pursued them and their leader deep into the hilly ravines. How the brigands had crossed a rain-swollen river by way of a bridge which they wrecked before the pursuers reached it, and how their leader, a woman, had come forward on her horse to speak…

  Yarram paused and gave Mazaret a troubled look. “My lord, you know me, and you know that I place great store by truth and accuracy.”

  “That is so,” Mazaret said. “Say on.”

  “Well, my lord, the brigand leader came to the edge of the riverbank, by the rushing waters, so I rode down to our side to confront her - my lord, her winding cloak and everything about her was palest grey, and her face was that of Suviel Hantika…”

  In the shocked silence, Mazaret stared at him while a numb, dislocating sensation swept through him.

  “No,” he said. “That cannot be…”

  Yarram looked wretched. “My lord - ”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “My lord, I was as close to her as I am to ser Bardow there, and I swear to you that it was her.”

  Mazaret pushed himself shakily up from the table, pain pounding in his head. “I cannot listen to any more of this - ”

  Bardow laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “You must, my friend. You must hear it all.”

  After a moment Mazaret sank back into his chair and nodded wordlessly. Yarram seemed to gather his determination before continuing.

  “She looked at me with bone-white eyes and said, ‘Tell your masters that Death has many doors and they cannot lock them all. And tell Ikarno that I shall await him at Blueaxe Ridge’.”

  There was utter quiet for a second or two, then Mazaret said;

  “Where is Blueaxe Ridge?”

  “Southwest of the city,” Yasgur said thoughtfully. “A stone track follows a long slope up to it. It is a good lookout point, and easily defended. Be wary of the words of the dead, my friend. Once uttered, they are like hooks in your soul.”

  “My lord,” Bardow said. “Think carefully. It would be a foolhardy act - ”

  “How did this happen, Archmage?” Mazaret said, voice made raw by grief. “What did they do to her?”

  Bardow met his gaze. “The Lord of Twilight’s followers have a ritual which can pare away a person’s spirit to create images of the original called rivenshades. Sometime they can even cloth them in flesh.”

  “The Acolytes did this to her in Trevada?”

  “Yes.”

  Mazaret could feel his heart thudding in his chest. “You said images of the original, Bardow. Could they have made more than one of these things.”

  Bardow let out a long sigh. “Nerek thinks it almost certain that they would.”

  Mazaret nodded slowly. Now the horror was complete. The pain in his head had become a kind of strength now, and he stood up, steady and unwavering.

  “They did this to her,” he said in an iron voice. “The Acolytes, sitting in their stolen towers, dripping evil into the veins of our lands. But their towers are only of stone, and they bleed when cut…”

  “You cannot propose an assault on Trevada, my lord,” said Bardow. “It’s practically a fortress - ”

  “If I did,” Mazaret snapped. “No-one would question the justness of it!”

  Bardow sat back. “Regardless, you and all who went with you would die,” he said quietly.

  Mazaret paused and bowed his head, striving to master his anger. “I do not propose such a course of action, my lords. But the time may come soon when we will have to move against our enemies with all our might.”

  “Till then,” Yasgur said. “We should plan and train and build.”

  “I shall redouble our efforts to corner these brigands, my lord,” said Yarram. “Soon they will have nowhere to hide.”

  “Thank you for your wise counsel and concern, my lords,” Mazaret said, his fury reined in. “Now, by your leave, I shall retire to my chambers and a much-needed rest.”

  “And try to put Blueaxe Ridge out of your mind, my lord,” Bardow said as Mazaret turned towards the door.

  If only I could, he thought grimly, walking off through the shadows. But the reckoning has to begin somewhere.

  * * *

  Shrouded in the shadows of the library annexe’s upper tier, Tauric listened with mounting alarm to Bardow’s account of the attempt on Keren’s life, then to that of Mazaret's foray into central Khatris. Certain details of the first were new to him, like the attack on Nerek and the use of tainted Lesser Power, and the grotesque horror of the second made him feel pure despair.

  A situation like this demanded a real leader, one with wisdom, battle experience, authority and, above all, sorcerous power. Instead, they had himself, a powerless boy emperor who felt himself grow more superfluous with each passing day.

  Then Tauric heard Yarram tell of the brigand leader who looked like the dead mage, Suviel Hantika, and her doom-laden message. When Mazaret reacted with disbelief and anger, Tauric could feel the man’s pain. His own anger kindled as he listened, and when Mazaret all but vowed revenge upon the Acolytes of Twilight it sparked a decision.

  He crept back along the darkened tier to a false panel between two sets of shelves. He had learned of the secret tunnel from a seldom-visited section of the main library, an archive collected by Korregan’s father and his grandfather, Emperor Varros the Third. A stub of candle burned in a clay holder sitting on the floor just inside the hinged panel, and after closing it behind him he picked up the lamp and followed a low, narrow passage round a short curve. At its end a steep set of steps in the stone went up to bring him out behind a statue of one of the palace’s architects. He squeezed out of the small square hole, fitted the stone-tiled wooden cover over it, then straightened to gaze out over Besh-Darok. He was back on the outer balcony.

  His two Companions, Aygil and Dogar gave expectant smiles as he emerged from behind the statue. Both wore blue sashes over heavy white tabards and carried sheathed long knives at their waists but only Aygil had a standard bearer’s hook on his belt.

  “A gainful experience, majesty?” said Aygil.<
br />
  “A sobering one,” Tauric said. “And one that I would discuss with our guest - straight away.”

  The Companions' eyes widened.

  “After that,” he went on, “I shall ask Him how to look for a shrine. But let us be on our way back to the Keep of Night. The sooner we get there the sooner we can find out what He knows.”

  Flanked by the two youths, Tauric followed the warden stairs down to the second floor where a covered gantry led from the side of the High Spire over to a stone walkway half way down the sheer inner face of the Silver Aggor. The walkway afforded a wide view of the Courts of the Morning and as they strode along Tauric could just make out the last labourers leaving an almost-complete stone dais down near the base of the Spire. Upon it would sit a statue of Gunderlek, the tragic rebel leader. Tauric had argued passionately that the man should be honoured, and had been surprised when both Lord Regents and the Archmage agreed. It was also suggested that smaller statues of him be commissioned for public squares, the Hall of the City Fathers, and Five Kings Dock.

  Watch-brands flared in recesses to either side of a large door in the wall of the Keep of Night. Guards saluted and stood aside as Tauric and the two Companions passed through. A short passage led into the third floor, most of which had been given over to Tauric and his retinue as temporary accommodation while the upper levels of the Spire were being rebuilt. Inside, they hurried along corridors to a square room where half a dozen Companions sat or lounged on settles. All stood when Tauric entered but he gestured them to take their ease as he and the others crossed to a curtained arch. Beyond was a small anteroom and two Companions guarding a plain wooden door. The guards stood to attention as Aygil opened the door and led the way in.

  It was a small room, dim inside with the only light coming from a pair of tiny bronze oil lamps burning on an altar in the corner. A hunched figure knelt on a mat before it, muttering in a low monotone, so Tauric and the other waited respectfully. At last, the man stopped, uttered a long sigh then said;

  “Divine Skyhorse, behold these three who don the burden of valour in your name. Bless their tasks, O Stallion of the Storm, that soon all the people shall raise up their voices in praise of you. By plain and sky…”

  “By plain and sky,” Tauric and his Companions repeated, each with a hand lifted to grasp the horse amulet that he wore about his neck.

  There was a protracted moment, then the man, still on his knees, said, “You honour this poor priest with your visit, majesty. Does new knowledge trouble you?”

  Tauric shivered at this demonstration of prevision but accepted it. “Greetings to you, priestly one. I have indeed learned many unsettling things today…” and he proceeded to give a brief retelling of all he had overheard in the library.

  “Evil is a sprouting poison that can take root in any soil,” said the shadowy priest.

  “And we seem almost powerless to stop it,” Tauric said.

  “Hmm….don’t you mean ‘I’ rather than ‘we’, majesty?”

  Tauric’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he said. “All around, people I know are risking their lives and their very spirits in this veiled battle, while I sit with empty hands, powerless.” He clenched his fists. “Surely now is the time to awaken the Skyhorse to a land desperate for his protection, if only we knew where to find a shrine or a place of power - ”

  The priest sighed again. “After the battle, in the days and weeks during which I crawled along the shore with my shattered leg, many things passed through my mind, faces, images and patterns that scoured me out, purifying my essence before I was permitted my first vision of the divine Skyhorse, Great Mane of the World….and in my time here in this sanctuary, some of those wild seeings rear up from memory now and again, as did one in the midst of your account, majesty. Pray tell, what was the name of the town where the lord Mazaret met his allies?”

  “Why...it was Nimas…”

  There was a sharp intake of breath and the priest struggled to his feet with the aid of a staff. “Nimas...where once, in ages past, there was a great temple dedicated to the divine Skyhorse…”

  Then he turned to face them. Bald and ageing, his long-jawed features showing the strain of his crippled leg, the Armourer regarded Tauric with bright, fervent eyes.

  “Nimas, majesty,” he said. “There you will find the power you need.”

  Tauric felt on fire with exultation. “When shall we leave? How soon?”

  “Soon, but not too soon, majesty. We must wait for a sign and we must be ready, and therefore we must prepare.” He smiled, revealing broken teeth. “Yes, in this preparation is everything.”

  Chapter Six

  Fear my hand,

  Which will crack thy walls,

  And make a thousand armies,

  Out of sand.

  —Calabos, The City Of Dreams, Act 2, ii.8.

  In pale green light, deep below the deepest dungeons of the citadel of Rauthaz, Byrnak stood by the wall of a vast, silent cavern, gazing across a restless lake of bodies. The Wellgate had made this possible, hollowing out a great emptiness that was twin to the one beneath Casall, a huge workshop fit for the fashioning of the Host of Twilight. The cold, damp air held a rank odour of iron, or perhaps rust. The enfolding green glow emanated from the opaque, smooth walls and ceiling, adding to the silvergrey radiance that filtered up between the still bodies. The lake seemed to ripple and lap, yet it was made not of water but of souls, a shimmering, silently writhing expanse of souls. Crouching down by the brink, Byrnak could see tenuous, distended forms crammed together, sliding and struggling for possession of the flesh that floated upon them…

  Leap in, worm...join with the mindless…

  Byrnak rose and stepped back from the edge.

  Consider it a moment - were you to relinquish this form, you could very quickly seize another, once its owner was dealt with...you would be free of me…

  Byrnak laughed with unconcealed contempt. I can think of at least half a dozen possible outcomes to such a scheme, he thought. None of them favourable to me.

  An image flashed into his mind, a giant in a horned helm turning slowly to grin at him, with black glints for eyes - There will be no peace for you, no rest - and one huge hand reaching towards him -

  He blinked, saw the cavern once more, and gritted his teeth in a stifled snarl.

  “Keeping our guest amused, brother?” said an approaching voice.

  Grazaan was striding along the lakeside path, followed by three shaven-headed Acolytes. He wore his habitual battered leather harness and troos, and over that a great, dark red cloak adorned with spiders and scorpions, its folds lifting slightly as he walked. He also appeared to be weaponless, while behind him the Acolytes carried coils of rope.

  “Greetings, brother,” Byrnak said. “He certainly seems to need no sleep. Unfortunately, I do.”

  Nodding, Grazaan came to a halt a few feet away. “Night before last I made the mistake of falling into a drowse unprepared. Woke to find my left hand around one of my servant’s throat, having choked him to death. Which is why I’ve thought to devise a precaution.” With a tilt of the head he indicated the accompanying Acolytes.

  “At least our minds remain inviolate,” Byrnak said.

  Grazaan frowned. “How did our brother Thraelor seem when you and he last conversed?”

  “Tired - of course - and somewhat distracted. That was in mindspeech this morning.”

  “I spoke with him yesterday, using the Wellmirror,” Grazaan said. “I could scarcely get any sense out of him, and the last thing he said was, ‘Is he the mask or am I?’”

  A dark ripple of unease passed through Byrnak, and he thought he heard a harsh inner laughter, faintly as if coming from afar.

  “We shall have to keep him under watch,” Grazaan said. “In the meantime, I assume that you are here to observe our progress and pester us to do more in less time.”

  “Several intrigues will soon come to fruition, brother,” said Byrnak. “Some time in the next day o
r two we may need to move a force of at least ten thousand down the Great Aisle, all armed and provisioned.”

  “So the Aisle is complete.”

  “The Wellgate finished the bore a short while ago,” Byrnak said, enjoying the satisfaction. “Should we wish, we could ride from here to Besh-Darok in less than a day.”

  “With this strategic superiority,” Grazaan said, “why do you continue to indulge in these minor ploys and schemes?”

  “We face the imponderable, brother,” Byrnak said. “What is the Earthmother’s purpose and will she act when we begin our campaign? When that moment arrives, all resistance must collapse like an eggshell. Then, with the Crystal Eye and the Motherseed in our hands - ”

  “We may at last be able to deal with our lord and master,” Grazaan said with a wintry smile.

  Byrnak nodded. The fragments of the Lord of Twilight that each of them carried were hungry for union, whatever the cost to their hosts. One of their number, Ystregul the Black Priest, had already succumbed to insanity instigated by his own shard of the Lord of Twilight, and was held ensorcelled and enchained in Trevada.

  “Just so,” Byrnak said. “And time is not on our side.”

  Across the cavern, a group of Acolytes were helping several naked people out of the lake of souls. At that moment, a shriek cut through the liquid silence, a sound full of madness and despair. Some way along, Byrnak could see the figure of a man crouching amid the prone bodies, one hand clasping his head while crying out wordlessly and trying to wake those around him.

  “Occasionally, a quelled host awakes while one of the harvested souls is trying to take possession,” Grazaan said. “The shock is usually enough to repel the incursion and destroy any lingering sanity.”

  As a pair of Acolytes, walking on green footholds in the air, seized the weeping, babbling host, Byrnak looked thoughtfully at the other Shadowking. “How often does this happen, and what do you do with them?”

  “We get four, perhaps five of them a day,” Grazaan said. “We put them out in the garth-yards behind the curtain walls. Helps feed the eaterbeasts, brother.”