Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  He was sitting crosswise in the back of their small supply cart as it jolted and rattled through the streets of the old town. The cold, grey gloom of dusk was drawing down across Besh-Darok. On his head was a wide-brimmed drover's hat and he wore a long, grubby smock over his breastplate and mailed leather, along with thick woollen gloves and disguising rags wrapped around his boots. But the deepening chill still bit at the tips of toes, and at his nose and fingers.

  His standard-bearer, Aygil, and three others rode along with the cart, two behind, two ahead, and all cloaked and muffled against the cold and recognition. Four were all of his Companions that the priestly Armourer would allow, so Tauric had made sure that they were well-armed.

  The Armourer was driving the cart with its one mule, his hooded, hunched figure swaying as they progressed across the uneven, cobbled street. It had been late afternoon, perhaps three hours hence, when one of the Companions had sought him out with an urgent message from the Armourer. Tauric had been in the palace library, making notes on old Skyhorse rituals, so he had stuffed the scrawled-on parchments inside his doublet and made for the Keep of Night. As he rode in the back of the cart, the Armourer's words came back to him.

  “Majesty – the time of destiny is upon us. We must depart for Nimas as soon as possible.”

  In the priest's small chamber, in the gloomy glow of the solitary candle, Tauric had felt trepidation clutch at him as the blood began to beat in his skull. “Why now? What has happened…”

  “I had a vision, majesty. In the midst of my meditation, my senses were seized in a whirl of motion, as if wings were carrying me up into the sky, and when all came to rest I was standing on the highest pinnacle of a towering, star-gathering mountain. From there I could gaze across the entirety of Toluveraz from shore to shore and beyond while birds wheeled far below me and the very clouds brushed against my brow. Then through the terrible grandeur of the upper air a great pale horse as tall as the palace came galloping up to rear over me before regarding me with eyes full of time's reflection.

  “'He must come to Nimas,' it said in a thundering voice. 'To the temple there before sunset tomorrow.' And an instant later the vision fled like leaves in the grip of a gale, and left me here in my dim room…”

  He must come to Nimas...The words still echoed in his mind as he sat in the back of the cart making its way through the darkening streets of Darok Oldtown. Their route led past the tall house on whose roof Tauric and the Armourer and others had taken refuge during the early stages of the struggle for the city. He glanced up quickly, then away as the cart turned a corner into dark, puddled side streets. The Armourer kept to the back alleys as much as possible as they wound their way through the Old Town to the fishers' quarter. A variety of ketches and small netting boats ranged forth from two coves in the cliff-ringed northern curve of Andaru Bay. The southernmost one was where they were headed, and the smells of the curing shops and rendering yards grew strong in the air.

  The fishers' quarter was a cramped district of small, close-built houses and narrow, badly cobbled streets, but there were many lamps aglow above doorways and many folk out and about. Tauric knew from an earlier study of city maps, that the only direct route from the fishing community to the cove with its two piers was a sloping track hewn into the cliff face. So when the cart passed under a heavy gate lintel and turned sharply downward he realised where they were and looked round over his shoulder to see the abyssal darkness of the bay, the black, battlement-surmounted mass of the promontory and the utter, night-drowned expanse of the sea beyond. Then, as the cart rumbled down the track, he heard the Armourer whisper to him:

  “Our ship awaits us down at the pier, majesty, but so does a lading official and a pair of harbour guards. I may have to employ a certain amount of mummery so I apologise now in case it appears that I am being disrespectful or insulting to you.”

  “I understand, ser,” he whispered back.

  In the event, there was no need for playacting. The lading officer was a sallow-faced, shivering man keen to get the inspection and approval over so that he and his men could return to their warm cabin up on the cliff edge. The Armourer presented himself as a chandler from north Cabringa, then passed off the four Companions as youths travelling to Sejeend to begin apprenticeships, the horses as bound for a Roharkan breeding stable, the Companions' bundled equipment as antiques and curios procured for wealthy clients, and Tauric as his servant boy. The lading officer gave it all a cursory glance, then shrugged and signed the Armourer's concocted manifest. The Companions were down in the hold, seeing to their mounts with a couple of the crew while Tauric watched the Armourer shake hands with the lading officer then limp with his stick up the gantry.

  Once on deck, he drew Tauric off to one side as the gantry was hauled in. “T'would be wise to maintain our roles whilst on board, majesty, just until we put ashore further north.”

  “I agree, ser. Perhaps I could wait on deck, just for a short while to see us leave.”

  “As you wish, your majesty,” the Skyhorse priest said, amusement in his voice. “I mean to speak with the captain, so I shall attend you after.”

  Tauric nodded, but his excited attention was on the sailors as they tugged on lines and exchanged shouts, making ready to depart. The vessel was a small, two-masted cargo lugger with high prow and stern, and this would be Tauric's first real sea voyage. Under his feet he could feel the slow sway of the vessel as it rode in the swell, hear the quiet lap of the waves and smell the salt of the wine-dark waters. Then, more calls from the crew as they cast off. The deck lamps swung, booms creaked and the sails made a great ruffling sound as they caught the breeze and bore the ship away from the pier.

  The young emperor breathed in deeply and sighed, staring across at the southern part of the bay, the Long Quays and the great bulk of Five Kings Dock. Then the cliffs slipped aside and the palace and the tall spindle of the High Spire came into view, and a spasm of guilt and qualm went through him. Was it too late to turn back? He imagined himself trying to tell the captain who he was and demanding that he go about and make for the pier…

  Then through his panicky imaginings he noticed something happening ashore, at the mouth of the Olodar near the Earthmother temple at Wybank. Knots of people with torches were coming along the waters edge from upriver towards the area where the rocky shore rose from the pebbly strand to become grey cliffs. He crossed to the starboard side, gripped the wooden rail and stared out, wondering if the torchbearers were hunting for him. Then the Armourer's voice came from the shadows to his right.

  “Worry not, your majesty. It is not you that they are pursuing, rather some cutpurse or the like.” He was silent for a moment. “Tell me, sire, are there uncertainties in your mind?”

  Tauric laughed nervously. “A host of them, good priest. A jostling army of them!”

  “And all begging you to give up this mad venture and return to the palace, yes?” The Armourer nodded within his capacious cowl. “Such are only the fears of past lives having their say, impossible to silence yet possible to ignore.”

  “Yes, ser priest,” Tauric said, gathering his resolve. “You are right. The Skyhorse temple at Nimas awaits – I shall not doubt or falter.”

  The Armourer clapped him on the shoulder.

  “My lord, you have grown this day and the first steps on the path of fate. Now let us go below and see what we can find in the way of a hot meal – when we disembark in a few hours, we shall be lighting no fires to draw attention to ourselves…”

  Nodding, he followed the priest down the open companionway but his rising spirits were blunted by the cold chill of his metal arm which fed the ache in his shoulder.

  * * *

  Bardow sat stony-faced at the great table in the steward's hall and watched the twenty-two White Companions file out of the doors under armed guard. Some fingered their horse pendants and all looked disconsolate, having confessed all they knew in admirable detail when confronted with the ire and steely gaze of an angry
Archmage. As the last of them left, Bardow leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table and study the notes he had made on a long strip of parchment. Then he glanced at Yasgur who had observed the proceedings from a window seat at the side of the chamber, and was now frowning silently to himself.

  “At least now we know it all,” Bardow said.

  “Pity we did not know five hours ago when they were still in the city,” Yasgur said gruffly.

  Which Bardow took to mean – Why didn't we know before all this that a servant of the Shadowking Kodel was ensconced in the palace itself?

  He wished he had an answer. The Armourer was clearly a sorcerer of some ability to have devised Tauric's metal arm back before the uprising, and that was emphasised by the way in which he had remained undetected in Besh-Darok all this time. The question was whether he was solely a Wellsource adept or if he was able to employ the Lesser Power as well. Bardow had wondered about the timing of the secret departure, coming so soon after Nerek had returned with her powers restored. One thing he learned from the Night Keep guards was that some had seen a small bird flitting through the corridors in the early afternoon. Likewise, when one of the court servants entered Tauric's bedchamber later, he saw a similar bird, a slip of paper in his beak, spring up from a taboret and dash out the open window in a blur of wings.

  Bardow smiled bleakly, certain that the bird had been sent by the Armourer's masters in Gorla and Keshada, signalling him to spirit the boy out. In his turn, the Armourer had used the creature to steal a note left by Tauric in his chambers….well, that was conjecture but he felt sure that Tauric would have left a letter, an explanation of some kind. Yes, a Wellsource-bound creature that small would have gone unnoticed in the confusion wrought by Nerek's own powers, which would draw the attention of the Crystal Eye as well.

  “The immediate problem,” Bardow said heavily, “is how to forestall any panic among the city's populace, or even how to keep the story from leaking out.”

  “Cannot be done,” said Yasgur. “Someone will talk, someone will realise that something is being concealed and rumours will breed like maggots in dead meat. I think that you are going to have to lie…”

  “Lie?”

  “Skillfully and loudly, ser Bardow. Announce that the Emperor has been sent to a secret, safe location on the Cabringan coast, then later explain away our searching as pursuit of enemy spies.” He pointed at Bardow. “And since we know the boy's destination, we could send someone after him.”

  Bardow raised his eyebrows. “Despite the five hour advantage they have?”

  “They are six, one of them is lame and they have only four horses. One man on horseback could catch them, and I know of one who could.”

  As Yasgur got to his feet and pulled on his fur-trimmed cloak of black, the Archmage sighed. “You're right, Lord Regent. I shall see to the announcements tonight, if you despatch one of your soldiers after our errant sovereign.”

  “Good,” Yasgur said, opening the door, letting in a stream of chilly air. “Till morn.”

  The door slammed behind him, shutting off the cold. Bardow stared levelly at the place where Yasgur had stood, thoughts slowing from lack of sleep yet still harried by fears and doubts beneath which his own despair gaped like a waiting maw. A short time before the questioning of Tauric's Companions, he had conversed with Medwin through mindspeech and heard at last the full tale of the failed invasion attempt and the terrible destruction wrought on the city, Scallow. But he was most deeply struck by the disappearance of Gilly, captured by the enemy and now seemingly lost, perhaps dead, and Keren who, Medwin was sure, had yesterday reached the coast of Honjir alive but today could not be found or traced at all.

  One by one we fall, he thought sombrely. Even fate and chance seem to be against us. When will it be my turn, I wonder? - perhaps I should ride out to the old fort and await the end there, sword in hand…

  He smiled sadly as his responsibilities and burdens made a little procession through his mind. The last of them was the sword of melded powers, scarcely begun despite hopeful trials yet offering a faint glimmer of hope.

  And after the loss of Keren, Gilly and now Tauric, he needed all the hope he could find.

  * * *

  Atroc was waiting in Yasgur's outer chamber, sipping a hot beaker of mulled wine and examining some of the tribal spears adorning one wall when the Mogaun prince entered, attended by a scribe and two pages. Seeing Atroc, Yasgur sent the servants away to an outer room then closed the door and crooked a finger at the old man. Atroc gulped the last of the wine, set the beaker on a low stand then followed him through drapes and onto the balcony.

  This side of the Keep of Night looked south across a narrow jumble of low roofs to the wide, torchlit battlements of the city wall. Beyond and above, the night was a solid darkness out of which snow came in gusts and swirls. But Atroc spared little attention for the surroundings, aware that Yasgur was full of grim determination.

  “Can you guess why I wanted to see you here, old man?” the Lord Regent said.

  “The Emperor's untimely disappearance, my prince?” he said.

  “Yes.” Yasgur scowled out at the darkness. “Insolent child allowed himself to be snared by some lackey of the Shadowkings promising him the power of some lost and forgotten god. When word gets out, the city will heave with rioting, whatever Bardow and the High Conclave do.” He leaned closer to Atroc. “Defeat is in the air, old friend, and the time of severance is almost upon us.”

  Atroc met his gaze. “What would you have me do, my prince?”

  “The man we spoke of before, the one who brought the message, has a room at an inn called the Three Dukes which is near the Bridge of Hawks, on the Old Town side. Find him and tell him that I agree to a meeting and as soon as possible. Tell him that I wish to meet out from the harbour, ship to ship.”

  Atroc nodded, privately amazed at his own calmness at these cold preparations for betrayal. Part of him felt that Yasgur was wrong, that the die was not yet cast, the battle not yet lost, but he knew his duty and would not break his self-forged loyalty.

  “Your will is my command, master,” he said. “But to avoid recognition, perhaps I should wear something over these fine garments of mine!”

  Yasgur laughed. “I'll dig up something from the chests in my chamber. Also, on your way out find Ghazrek and tell him to attend him immediately. I have a task that only he can be trusted to fulfill.”

  “Your commands are iron, Great Firespear,” Atroc said, bowing his head.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When mask becomes face,

  Sharpen your wits.

  When face becomes mask,

  Sharpen your sword.

  —Jefren proverb

  Cold and weary, excited and fearful, exultant and prepared, Tauric was all of these as he, his four Companions and the Skyhorse priest once known as the Armourer entered the snow-covered ruins of Nimas on near-spent horses. Morning mist veiled the white surrounding countryside and made the gouged and burnt-out buildings of the town seem pale grey. The roofless shell of the Fathertree temple was visible as a wide, shadowy cleft in the rocky outcrop at the market cross.

  Tauric had visited Nimas once before, in his fourteenth year, when the Duke of Patrein took him to the annual High Day of Lights. This was a celebration to mark the end of the harvest and the first day of winter – people came from all over Khatris and the neighbouring lands, bringing lanterns of every kind, made from parchment, cloth, leaves and bark, wood and metal. Suspended on great, curved frameworks, they were kept alight throughout the night and following day of the festival. His memory of that time was golden, and he could never forget the fantastic multitude of glowing shapes and forms, especially a well-guarded set of tiny lamps from Tymora, each made from slivers of diamond, emerald and riveril.

  On that visit, Tauric had gained entrance to the temple as the Duke's son, but was kept from seeing the sacred sanctoral by a tall, richly embroidered screen that surrounded the chalern dais. No
w he would enter it as emperor, bringing the promise of new power, new beginnings and a new empire. He thought of the small sheaf of notes he had brought with him from the palace library in Besh-Darok, and could only feel the folded shape of them beneath his cloak and armour and shirt, next to his skin. Late yesterday afternoon he had shown them to the Armourer who glanced at a couple, nodded and handed them back.

  “Your pursuit of the Skyhorse creed's hallowed history is commendable and gratifying, your majesty,” he had said. “It may be that some form of incantation will be required when we reach the sacred shrine, yet I believe that the ancient powers of the Skyhorse will recognise you as the rightful heir and confer their glories upon you.”

  For all that this pronouncement was pleasing and reassuring, Tauric had wanted to ask the man's opinion on specific aspects of those scribbled chants and invocations, particularly one which mentioned 'the blood of the Skyborn' in the context of a sacrifice. In the event, he had decided to wait until they were actually facing the sanctoral itself.

  As the Armourer led them through the ruins of Nimas, Tauric glanced round at his Companions, Herik, Rowlg, Drano and Aygil. All seemed alert and looked fresher than Tauric felt, yet he suspected that some if not all had dozed off in the saddle at some point in the long hard ride from the coast.

  Tauric stifled a yawn as they approached the town's market cross. Once this would have been a thriving centre of activity, even in winter, with drovers and flocksmen haggling over cold-weather prices. Tauric knew that the blanketing snow concealed the chill, ashen evidence of pillage but in his mind's eye he imagined all the wreckage cleared away, the homes and marts rebuilt, the temple renewed and rededicated to the Skyhorse…

  When they came to the foot of the wide, shallow steps curving up to the temple, Tauric expected the Armourer to have them all dismount and continue on foot. Instead the priest urged his horse up the steps, so Tauric and the others followed on, Aygil with his standard at last unfurled, the pale blue banner with its embroidered crown-and-tree device draped over his mounts hindquarters.