It poured down his chest and immediately the front of his robes was ablaze. There were curses and gasps of horror from all who watched, and Atroc stared, dumbfounded, as the fiery blood kept coming and enveloped the man in a raging shroud of flame.
Yet he seemed unharmed - his skin did not blister and crack, nor were his eyes seared from their sockets. He just stood and stared and shook violently as if in the grip of a terrible ague. Then he sank to his knees with a web of bright lines spreading across his head and face like fractures. Atroc began to back away as the man raised his pain-wracked face to the sky with an agonised moan coming from between clenched teeth.
Then, unexpectedly, Yarram stepped forward with sword bared and before Atroc could speak, he hacked the man's head off with a single blow. The fiery body went out like a snuffed candle and toppled over to lie motionless. The still-burning head Yarram neatly flipped away with the tip of his sword, and to everyone's surprise it split open in a flaming coruscation even as it spun through the air.
“Friend Yarram,” Atroc said hoarsely, getting to his feet. “What made you act? How did you know - ”
“I knew nothing, seer.” The Lord Commander's face was a picture of anger and tiredness. “I found it...hard to bear seeing my Lord Mazaret and his lady dishonoured so by that filth Azurech. Then they left this poor wretch behind to die before our eyes...I had to put him out of his misery.”
“Your heart is good, ser,” said Yasgur who came to stand near the smoking, headless corpse. “You've kept some of us from death this day.” He looked at Atroc. “Are you familiar with this, old man? Is it an artifice of war from some bygone age?”
Atroc shook his head. “No, my prince. This is a newly made weapon.”
Yasgur glared down at the charred body. “I had feared as much. Which leads me to wonder how many others like him are already in the city.”
Atroc met his masters uneasy gaze with growing alarm as the implications began to dawn.
* * *
In an elevated alcove overlooking the broad, ceremonial corridor, Keren sat with the mage Medwin and Cordmaster Doreth, watching the main body of delegates file into the Keelcourt. The majority of them were anxious, worried-looking Scallowmen while the rest were angry or sullen Islesmen captains from the rebel ship-clans, plainly resentful at being here. Only the High Chief Hevrin seemed at ease, his steady gaze surveying the passageway and the balconies to either side. For a moment his eyes met hers, startling her out of her preoccupied thought. Then he was past, striding through the main doors.
As the last of them crossed the threshold, a pair of aftmasters pulled on the heavy, ponderous doors which swung shut with a solid thud.
“He's late,” Medwin murmured, voice low and tense.
“Patience, good ser,” said Cordmaster Doreth, a pudgy man in his forties. “He will be here.”
It was the merchant Yared Hevrin they referred to, but Keren's thoughts were centred on Gilly. It was over an hour since he had gone haring off after someone who might have been Ikarno Mazaret's brother. At the time she had recounted Gilly's suspicions to Medwin and Golwyth, and the master trader offered to send some of his men off in search of the hunter and his quarry, and Medwin gratefully accepted. But thus far there had been no sign of either Golwyth or Gilly, nor any news.
Apart from some muffled voices filtering through from the Keelcourt, the high-walled corridor was strangely peaceful. Keren could just hear the sound of flutes from down in the main hall as he watched a House attendant on the opposite balcony carefully refilling one of the ceiling oil lamps. On either side a series of banded poles were bolted to massive roof beams and the oil lamps moved to and fro on intricate runners….
Approaching footsteps broke into her reverie and she turned. What she had taken to be a wall hanging at one end of the balcony was bunched over to one side, revealing an open archway. The newcomer came into the light and leaned on the table where they sat. It was Yared Hevrin.
“My profoundest apologies, sers!” he said with a rueful smile. “I was forced to take a different route to the High House and once here decided to seek you out via the Foremasters office.”
Grinning, Medwin clasped hand with him. “Well met, ser Hevrin. And was the overland passage fortuitous?”
“It was, ser mage. Without a doubt.”
Medwin nodded and sat back, seeming to Keren both satisfied and relieved. Hevrin smiled at Doreth and exchanged greetings, then looked straight at Keren. “Your gown is most comely, Lady Keren - you wear it as naturally as a rider's garb.”
“You are most kind,” Keren said, annoyed at feeling a rush of heat to her face.
“Have you had that sagasong translated since we last spoke?” he went on.
“I brought the book with me, ser,” she said. “But have not been able to have such a task undertaken, as yet. I did leave a copy of the song with a friend in Besh-Darok before leaving - perhaps she has been more fortunate than I.”
Hevrin frowned slightly. “I see. I also took a copy of it before gifting it to you, and purely by chance we encountered during our journey to Dalbar a party of scholars returning to Oumetra. One was a Master of Parlance who very kindly rendered it into Khatrian for me, and pointed out some oddities. It makes for interesting…” He smiled. “But we can talk on that at length later, once we've seen this anger-and-thunder performance through.”
Everyone rose and followed him along to the archway. Keren paused to look back down at the corridor but saw no-one, and went with the rest.
Beyond the curtained entrance was a curved, narrow passage between the main outer wall of the Keelcourt and the high clothscreen back of the tiered seating. Hevrin showed them to a balustraded staircase which sloped up to the rearmost seats.
“That is where guests and visitors can sit and watch,” he told Keren and Medwin quietly. “While you find yourselves places, I must enter the Court by another door. Till later.”
Hevrin and Cordmaster Doreth continued along the passage and out of sight round the curve. Keren followed Medwin up carpetted steps to find seats on a long, hard bench from where she could survey the entire Keelcourt. The chamber itself was oval-shaped but the tiers of seats were arranged in two long, curved blocks facing each other with a small third block set at one end. In front of that was a dais with an elaborate carven pedestal from where speakers could address the assembly.
All of which contributed to the appearance of a great open ship. At the other end, standing over the court's double doors, was a large stone statue of a bearded, bare-chested man holding a gnarled staff in one hand and a cluster of sea creatures in the other. Keren wondered if it was meant to be a representation of the Fathertree, perhaps in his sea-dwelling aspect. She would ask Yared Hevrin later, once the matter of Gilly was resolved.
The atmosphere in the packed chamber was very tense. There were other conversations and arguments going on around the tiers, and the man speaking from the dais was being constantly interrupted from all sides. There seemed to be different factions among the representatives but from where Keren sat, at the top half-way along one of the side tiers, the only clearly-defined one consisted of the Islesmen and their leader, the Hevrin. He sat on one of the bottom benches near the dais, seemingly motionless, his feet planted apart, his big hands resting on his knees.
A roar went up when Yared Hevrin entered by the ceremonial door in the corner by the rear of the dais. He acknowledged the welcome and shook a few hands before assuming a seat almost directly opposite his cousin, the chieftain. The speaker tried to continue but a rising tide of barracking forced him to conclude and surrender the floor of the Keelcourt. There were more cheers as Yared Hevrin rose and stepped up to the pedestal. The din faded into silence as he sombrely surveyed the ranks of faces on either side.
He began to speak, hearkening back to the foundation of Scallow more than a thousand years before when the tyrant King Dahorg was toppled by a coalition of ship clans. Yared went on to speak of the sixteen-year-long oppressi
on at the hands of the Mogaun and the sorcerous Acolytes of Twilight, and how a dauntless alliance of knights and forest fighters blessed by the Earthmother had routed the enemy horde.
“Yet the dread Shadowkings have not been defeated,” he said. “Even as I speak, their forces gather around the city of Besh-Darok, their sorcery darker and more deadly, their warriors as numerous as grains of sand upon the beach. We should be at the side of the defenders, ready to fight, but instead our ships sit at anchor, waiting for the ship-clans of the Isles to come against us. We should cease this wasteful and pointless conflict….”
Keren did not see any signal given, but suddenly the Hevrin's captains began rising one by one from their seats and walking calmly out of the chamber. Angry voices were raised at such a stark affront and Yared Hevrin faltered in his delivery.
“Medwin,” she said. “Why are they doing this?”
“I'm not sure,” he said, grim-faced. “These staged interruptions are usually planned in advance, but why would the Hevrin agree to come here only to walk out?”
Eventually Yared fell silent, his face full of anger and confusion, and as the last dissenter strode from the Keelcourt, the Hevrin himself got to his feet. Leisurely, he crossed the dais and halted about an arm's length from Yared Hevrin. For a moment, the cousins glared at each other.
“Why have you sent your men away?” Yared said. “Call them back that we can continue this - ”
“You kept your name.”
The statement stopped Yared in mid-sentence.
“My...name?”
“The family name which came down from our fathers' father, Agandrik, who was the Hevrin of Hevrin Sept in his day. When you broke with the Sept years ago and went to live in another land, little was thought of it. But after the Mogaun were eradicated from these shores you began writing to many chiefs and notable, advocating the elevation of the so-called land- and trader-clans to seats in this hallowed chamber. And every letter you signed with my grandfather's family name, sullying it.”
Yared's gaze was cold. “Now I see - you want me to give up the name of my line. That is a custom long out of use, and I will not bow to it.”
The chieftain glanced around the chamber, at all the faces watching, and Keren saw him smile and turn back.
“I am the Hevrin of Hevrin Sept and I command you to either recant all the poison you have uttered and rejoin the Sept under burden of penance, or give up the name Hevrin forever.”
Unyielding, Yared folded his arms. “ I shall do neither.”
At this, the Hevrin turned to face the five Cordmasters in their ornate chairs overlooking the speakers dais.
“As High Chieftain of Hevrin Sept, I demand restitution for wounds inflicted by this man, who refuses to renounce my sept name. Do any here deny me this right?”
As the Cordmasters leaned closer to consider, a hubbub of disbelief and anger filled the Keelcourt and Keren could see that Yared looked worried.
“What does that mean?” she asked Medwin.
The mage shrugged. “Money or belongings, or some form of servitude, perhaps…”
The Cordmasters seemed to reach a decision and the whole Keelcourt fell silent as their spokesman looked down at the Hevrin Chieftain and nodded once.
“State the manner of your restitution.”
What happened next took place so quickly that Keren almost missed it. Off to the side, Yared Hevrin had turned to beckon to someone on the front benches and never saw the Chieftain's savage lunge. A powerful left arm snaked round Yared, across his chest to grasp his right shoulder while the other hand took hold of his head. There was a wrenching twist, the body turning one way and the head the other….then there was only a lifeless, broken-necked body slumping onto the dais with roars of fury filling the chamber like a storm. The Hevrin just stood there, smiling down at his cousin's corpse while outraged members leaped up from their seats -
At that very moment, the doors of the Keelcourt were thrown open and the Hevrin's men marched in, every one bearing a blade. The din of shouting faded abruptly, apart from a couple of voices which continued to rant and rave from high up in the tiers. Someone further down was weeping amid the sickening silence as the Hevrin stepped down lightly from the dais and, without a backward glance, strode out of the chamber flanked by his captains.
Keren found that she was on her feet and holding on to Medwin's arm with both hands. A few people were gathering around Yared Hevrin's body but everyone else seemed to be shocked and aimless, unable or unwilling to dispers. Keren was about to suggest that they descend when a man came running and stumbling into the chamber.
“The ships….in the harbour….” he gasped, chest heaving, “All the ships are sinking!…”
Chapter Thirteen
Seeds of fire and iron and pain,
Sprout within the captive throng,
Whilst deep down in the lifeless dark,
Gapes the very throat of war.
—Ralgar Morth, The Empire Of Night, canto xvi
Byrnak strolled slowly around the cavernous audience chamber of Keshada Citadel, admiring the dark intricacy of its adornments. While doing so, he listened to Azurech deliver a report from the foot the stepped throne dais where he waited in the company of the commanders of Gorla and Keshada, amongst others.
“...and when our rivenshades spoke to Yasgur and his seer, the fear in their eyes was their spirit fear. Already they are half-defeated.”
Byrnak trailed his fingers over the interlocking serpent tracery of a black iron screen which spanned the distance between two pearl-opaque pillars. The pillars were roughly five yards apart and the screen was half the chamber's height, about fifty yards. There were a score of such screen spaced around the chamber, each with its own motif, and with lamps on the pillars casting pattern shadows in towards the throne.
“And then?” he said.
“We left the warblood sacrifice behind and rode away to watch from a distance. They were unsuspecting almost to the end when an officer beheaded the sacrifice. Another moment and Yasgur and his pet would have been smoking meat.”
“A minor disappointment,” Byrnak said, gazing up at the immense relief carving in green stone of a snarling nighthunter which dominated the entire wall above the throne, and the grey-and-black floortiles that mirrored its outline exactly. Byrnak's tour had at last brought him back to the throne dais where his own honour guard of mailed axemen waited, along with his standard bearer. He climbed only two of the dais' ten steps and considered the upturned expectant faces for a moment, then beckoned to the commanders of Gorla and Keshada. One was tall and cloak-clad, the other burly and garbed in a mismatch of leather and battered armour – both came forward and in silence went down on one knee before him.
“Is it true that you are both of the First-Woken?” Byrnak said.
“Aye, my Lord.”
“Then you will know the name Crevalcor.”
“One of our brothers, Great Lord, and a potent warrior,” said the tall commander of Gorla. “He helped build mighty Jagreag and stood against the Foreswearers till the uttermost end.”
“And how does Keshada, or Gorla for that matter, compare to Jagreag? In essence, are we ready for the assault on Besh-Darok?”
The commanders exchanged a look and the burly master of Keshada gazed up with a devoted smile. “Oh Great Lord, these citadels of ours would have been no more than meagre turrets next to the grandeur of Jagreag. Yet for this struggle they will more than suffice – Besh-Darok's walls are stout and well-made and will hold us back for less than a day. Our warriors will be a raging sea tearing them down.”
The hard, confident purpose of his words sent a thrill of satisfaction through Byrnak. He turned to Azurech.
“So you have given them until dawn tomorrow to decide,” he said.
“Just so, my master”
“Tomorrow at sunset would have been better,” Byrnak said. “As it is, you will let the deadline approach and pass without incident until the onset of dus
k, then give the warblood sign.”
Azurech's face – which was Byrnak's face – was alive with eagerness. “Is that when we unleash our armies, master?”
“No,” he said, smiling as the eagerness changed to disappointment. “No, for there are still unexplored dangers to be delved, too many uncertainties to be made clear.” He turned to stare across the massive chamber, seeing beyond the masonry and the thickness of the walls, southwards to the mile-distant battlements of Besh-Darok. Even this far away, he could sense the Crystal Eye, could feel the force of its watchfulness, like the heat of a fire or a dancing light, yet not. Information from inside the city was scant, with nothing coming from Kodel's man in nearly three days, yet Byrnak's deepest instincts told him that there was something… waiting there for him and the other Shadowkings, some kind of deadly fate.
He knew that Bardow and those other crippled mages possessed the Motherseed too, but that would provide little cause for this undersensed danger. Legends, and even reports from the revenant First-Woken, mentioned a third artefact of great power. Some called it the Staff of the Void, while others said it was the Song of the Void. Other sources pointed to the ancient verses on the Fires of Old, claiming that 'the fire that sleeps' was the third artefact.But if those enfeebled mages were in possession of this lost talisman, surely they would be using it against us even now, he thought. Assuming that they would know how to use it.
He glanced at the patiently waiting group. “We have to know what hazards may lurk beyond those walls. Once the warblood sign is given and havoc begins to grow, our new friends will have a part to play.”
Smiling, he beckoned to the pale-skinned rivenshades who stood a little apart from the rest. The woman came forward first and Byrnak descended the steps, hand outstretched which she took gracefully. Firmly he raised her hand to his lips and gave the cold flesh a lingering kiss. She seemed, he thought, only faintly appreciative while her companion, the Mazaret rivenshade, looked on with detached amusement. Byrnak could sense the emptiness in both of them, the vacancy beneath the outer shell. The rivenshade ritual was an ancient method of creating assassins, usually from the essence of the unsuspecting victim, and while this situation was a little different, they were still the perfect vessels for his purpose.
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